University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Bequest 

of 
GLADYS  TILDEN 


VG«°  EBmne.  iTfi* 


/* 


THE 


PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


JVIRS.  SILLS, 


WIFE  OF  THE  LATE 


REV.  JOHN  P.  HILLS, 


Home  Missionary  in  the  West* 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK: 
J.    "W.    O-OOIDSFBEID, 
1875. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by 

MRS.  J.  P.  HILLS, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


OTTAWAY  &  COLBERT, 

PRINTERS, 
147  &  149  Fifth  Ave., Chicago,  111. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


TI)OETRY  is  the  great  medium  of  communication  by  which  the 
thoughts  and  imagination  of  the  mind  are  conveyed  to  us  in 
a  pleasing  and  instructive  manner. 

The  Author,  realizing  this  fact,  and,  also,  that  she  is  one  in  our 
Heavenly  Father's  great  household,  has  molded  her  thoughts  and 
woven  her  stanzas  so  as  to  enlist  our  sympathies  in  all  that  is  pure 
and  good. 

She  leads  us  to  the  death-bed  of  youth  and  beauty — of  mature 
age  and  infancy — to  the  silent  city  of  the  dead — to  the  palace  of 
the  rich,  and  to  the  cot  of  the  poor — to  the  autumn  flowers  and 
the  rolling  prairie — to  the  whispering  breeze  and  the  summer 
cloud ;  and  to 

"  Gather  up  each  foot-fall  of  the  trodden  way, 
All  the  tender  lispings  of  the  by-gone  day." 

And  while,  in  this  volume  of  poems,  she  entertains  us  by  pure 
sentiments,  and  by  inborn  sympathy  urges  our  spirits  upward  and 
onward  in  the  great  conflict  of  life,  she  also  helps  us  to  feel  that 
the  tender  sympathies  of  Heaven  are  enlisted  in  our  behalf,  and 
thus  wins  us  to  Him  who  stretches  over  us  the  pavilion  of  His 
great  Universe,  and  gilds  the  dark  and  fretting  tide  of  our  earthly 
existence  with  heaven's  dawn. 


T 


ABLE    OF    LONTENTS, 


Prairie,             -               -               -             .-               -  n 
Time,        -                                                   ...     15 

Cycles  Round  and  Ages  Fly,          -  17 

We  Live  in  an  Age  of  Wonder,               -                -  -     18 

The  Broken  Vow,  20 

Life's  Bark,               -                 -                -                 -  -     25 
Thoughts  of  a  School  Girl,  on  hearing  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher 

for  the  first  time,                             -                -  -     26 

Sweeping  Onward  Forever,                               -                -  29 

On  the  Beach  of  Life,               -                 -                -  -     31 

Life's  Web,      -                                 -  34 

Ages,                         -                -                -                -  -    36 

We  Met  at  the  Crossings,  42 

Swift  that  Day  is  Coming,        -                -                -  -     44 

What  We  Would  Like,    ....  45 

Brain,  a  Workshop,                   -                 -                -  -    46 

Gathering  up  each  Footfall  of  the  Trodden  Way,         -  48 

Time  Linking  Eternity,            -                -                -  -5° 

I  am  Standing  in  the  Shadow,         -                -                -  52 

A  Ship  Embedded  in  the  Ice  of  the  Frozen  Ocean,  -    54 

Reminiscence,           -                 -                -                -  -     58 

I  am  Binding  Sheaves,    -                -                -                -  71 

Where  have  ye  Buried  the  Roses,            -                -  -     72 

The  great  Eclipse  of  1869,              ...  74 

"  Ship  Ahoy!"          -                -                -                -  -     76 

The  Last  Rose  of  Autumn,             ...  78 

Clintings  of  Glory,                    -                 -                •  -     80 

Scandinavian  Prince  and  his  Captive  Bride,                 -  82 


vi  CONTENTS. 


I  did  not  Hear  the  Moment  Speed,  -                -     85 

Strange  Tones  Sweep  O'er  the  Chords,  -                -87 

Musings  at  Midnight,               -                -  -                 -     88 

Memoria,  -                               91 

The  Great  Fire  in  Chicago,  October,  1871,  -  .              -    94 

Fire-flies,                           -                -  -                               96 

Incident  off  the  Coast  of  Scotland,          -  -                -     98 

Toward  the  Setting  Sun,  -                 -            100 
Ebbing  from  Time,                                     ...  102 

She  Measured  Off  Death's  Silent  Tread,  -            1 03. 

Who  is  my  Neighbor  ?               -  105 

The  Great  Catastrophe  at  Dixon,  Illinois,  -                -            107 

To-day  I  am  a  Weeper  Beneath  the  Sky,  -                -  114 

Heavenly  Love,                -                 -  -                 -            115 

Hudson  River,          -                 -                 -  -                 -  JI7 

The  Shores  Beyond,        -                -  -                -            119. 

Is  my  Brother  Sad  and  Needy?  I            -  -                -  12 r 

Wail  of  the  Deep,  -                -            123 

Trilling  of  the  Past,  -                -125 

Never  Despair,                 -                -  -                -            127 

Retrospection,                                             -  -                 -  129- 

I  love  Autumn  and  its  Weird-like  Scenery,  -                             132 

The  Promise  of  God  is  the  Christian's  Covenant  Bow,  -  133, 

God  All  in  All,  134 

"  Come  unto  Me,"   -  -  136 

Earth  a  Mite  in  God's  great  Universe-,  -                -            137 
Earth's  Brimming  Tears,          ....  138 

Go,  Work  for  God!         -  140 

Mississippi  River,     -                -                 -  -                 -141 

The  Hermit  of  Niagara,                  -  -144 
A  Weary  Pilgrim,     -----  146 

Autumn  Wanderings,       -                 -  -                 -            147 

A  Scene  at  Sea,        -  149 

Fleetness  of  Time,  154 

There  is  a  Higher  Law  than  our  Constitution,       -  -  156 

The  Scenes  of  Earth,      -  -            157 

Flowers  for  a  Biex,                  •               -  -               -  160 


CONTENTS.  vii 


Eighteen  Years,  -            162 

Napoleon's  Three  Days  or  Epochs,  -                -                -  164 

Ye  are  not  the  Whole  Creation,      -  -                -            168 

Years  have  Sped  by,  -                 -                 -  170 

Spirit  of  the  Past,  -                -            171 

No  Disappointment  in  Heaven,  ...  173 

No  Safety  this  side  of  Heaven,       -  -                             174 

A  Ride  on  the  Car,  -                -                 -  175 

We  may  not  live  Alway,                    -  •                             176 

Keep  Watch  and  Ward  to-day!  ...  177 

I  have  Lived  to  see  This  day,         -  -                -            178 

Reply  to  the  Following,  etc.,  -                -                 -  179 

Passing  Away,                   -                 -  -                 -             181 

Drifting  no  Longer,                   -  -                 -                 -  183 

A  Wreath,     -                                      ...  185 

A  Lost  Moment,       -                 -  -                -                -  186 

God  Gilds  the  Fretting  Tide,          -  -                             188 

Wake,  Brother,  Wake !  -                -                -189 

Judgments  of  God,           ....  190 

"  Tarry  not  in  all  the  Plain,"  -  -                -                -  192 

The  Song  Unsung,                            -  193 

Neither  Toiling,  neither  Spinning,  ...  195 

Life  Scenes  are  Checkered,  -                -            196 

On  the  Burning  of  the  Steamboat  Lexington,        -  -  197 

God  will  Provide,                              ...  200 

Rainbow  in  the  Evening,  -                -                -  201 

Memory  of  the  Past,  -                 -            202 

Who  can  find  out  God  ?  -                -                -  203 

Saturday  Night,                                 -  204 

Gems  over  which  Earth  Wails,  ...  206 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  Lives,"  -                -            207 

"  The  Angel  of  the  Lord  descended,"  etc.,"  -  208 

Lady,  Pause,    -  209 

Speak  Gently,  -                -  210 

Thy  Father  knows  Best,  -                             212 

Ancient  City  of  Petra,  -                -                 -  213 

"Jesus  Wept,"                -                -  -                            217 


viii  CONTENTS. 


Father,  Guide  us,     -                -                -                -  -219 

"  Lay  up  for  yourselves  Treasures,"  etc.,  -            220 

Pause,  ChiViitian,      -                                                  -  -  221 

Too  Soon,                                                           -  -            222 

Aim  High,                                                                     -  -  223 

A  Lone  On^'s  Soliloquy,                                    -  -            224 

Distrust  not               -  226 

Oh  !  linger  n^t,  Passing  Breeze,       -  227 

Imperfection  mars  all  our  Christian  Efforts,            -  -  229 

Oh !  is  it  not  in  Heaven,                  -                -  -            23 1 

A  Light  Shines  Ever,                -  232 

All  things  are  moving  Onward,       -  233 

Near,  yet  Far,           -  235 

No  Age  exempt  from  Death,           ...  237 

Phantom  Ship,          *                                                   -  240 

The  Lone  Tree  of  the  Prairie,  -           244 

Saviour,  near  me  be,                  -  -  247 

A.  Maiden,  on  seeing  a  Snowflake  for  the  first  time,  -            248 

Scene  of  the  Transfiguration,  -  251 

Death  of  Rev.  A.  Judson,                -                -  253 

Why  Stand  ye  here  Idle,  -  255 

River  of  Death,                 -  -    -        256 

She  Gathered  the  Seeds  of  Summer,       -                -  "257 

The  last  Plague  of  Egypt,  260 

God  Speed  the  Right,  -  263 
Lines  Suggested  by  hearing  a  friend  remark,  "I  so  much  miss 

my  little  Cripple  Boy,  ...  264 

Sowing  the  Seeds  of  Good  or  Evil,                 -  266 

The  Two  Webs,        -                -                -                -  -  267 

Infant,              .....  269 

Lady's  Delight,                         -                -                -  -  270 

Constantine,     -                 -                 -                 -  -            272 

Drummer  Boy,          ....  -  275 

Procrastination  the  Thief  of  Time,  276 

She  Sweepeth  the  Ocean  Floor,                                -  -  277 

Destruction  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  -            278 

Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Dr,  York,  Paris,  Illinois,  -  280 


CONTENTS. 


Not  as  I  would,              ....  2g2 
Death  of  President  Taylor,      ....  2g4 

Star  of  Bethlehem,                           ...  28c 
Death  of  Mrs.  Rev.  Holden,                   ...  287 

If  it  is  Thy  Will,  Oh  Lord!              -                -                -  289 
Gold  Panic,                                -                 ...  290 

The  City  Bell,                                    -                -                 -  292 
God  is  Here,                                               ...  294 

On  the  Death  by  Cholera,  etc.,        ...  295 

The  Wisdom  and  Love  of  God,               -                -  -'296 

""  My  Spirit  shall  not  always  strive  with  man,"               -  298 

Of  Rest,  -                                                                   -  -  299 

Last  of  the  Naticks,                                            -                 .  300 

The  Dead  Sea,                           -                 -                .  .  303 

For  me,  Christ  Groaned,  and  Wept,  and  Died,               -  304 

Night,       -                 -                 -                 -                 .  .305 

The  Glory  of  the  Heavens,             -                -                -  307 

Our  Friends  Depart  and  are  Not,                             -  -  309 

Life's  Path,      -                                  -                 .                -  311 

To  a  Lady,                                                 .                .  -312 

Death  of  Moses,                               -                -                -  314 

France,     -                                                   -                .  .  3I6 

Lord !  Teach  us  how  to  Pray,                            -                -  317 

There  are  no  Tombs  in  Heaven,             -                -  -  318 

A  Mercy  Seat,                                   -                -                .  3^ 

There  is  Rest  for  the  Weary,  -                -                -  -  320 

Death  is  Culling,              -                                  -                -  321 

What  is  Life?       .     -                -                -                .  -322 

What  is  Death?                -                 -                .                 -  323 

What  is  Heaven  ?                       -                -                .  .  325 

Our  Example,                                                                       .  326 

Death  of  President  Wm.  H.  Harrison,    -  327 

Call  Her  Not  Back,                          -  328 

Not  Dead,  but  Sleeping,                                             -  .  330 

Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Aura,      -                -                 •  332 

We  Laid  Her  to  Sleep,                             .                .  .333 

Cortez,  334 


CONTENTS. 


Death  of  Jacob,        -                                                     -  339 

Nineveh,                            -  341 

Perfect  Rest  of  Heaven,  -  343 

When  Darkness  Deepens  on  Life's  Way,                          -  344 

To  the  Mission  Band,  -  34<> 

Death  is  not  Feared  by  the  Good,  347 

Our  Departed,                                             -  -  349 

The  Egyptian  Captive,    -  35 r 

Illiria's  Cave,             -  353 

Cholera,  356 

Shadow  on  the  Wall,  -  357 

On  the  Death  of  Elvira  Ames,  Hancock,  N.  H.,  361 

Mrs.  A.  Ellison,  Manchester,  Ohio,  -  362 

A  Dirge,  3^4 

Too  Frail  for  Earth,  -  365 

Written  while  sitting  by  the  sick  bed  of  A ,  366 

Gone,       -  -  368 

She  Came  to  Me,                                                                  -  369 

The  Little  One's  Last  Sleep,   -                                 -  -  371 

Dedicated  to  the  Parents,                                  -  37  2 

Willie,       -  -  373 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant,  374 

The  Voice,  -  375 

Two  Missives,  376 

To  a  Friend,  -  37& 

The  Burial  of  DeSoto,    -  3&> 

Ponce  De  Leon,  seeking  the  Fountain  of  Youth,    -  -  382 

Indian  Orator's  Plea,       -  384 

Alone  beneath  the  Southern  Sky,  -  385 

Christian  Philanthropy,  -  387 

Whippowil,  -  39° 

Myrtle  Blossom,  39 l 

Thunder  Shower,     -  -  393 

To  the  Flower  Spirit,      -                                 -  395 

Violet,      -                                                 .                .  -  396 

Child  and  Dew-drop,       -  398 

Pond  Lilly,              -              -              -              -  -4°° 


CONTENTS.  xi 


Queen  Rose,    -  -                             402 

Breeze,      -  -                                  .405 

The  Fan  Palm,  .            407 

The  Frost  King,       -  _  409 

Flowers,  -                 -            4IO 

Beauty,     -  _  4II 

The  Summer  Cloud,  -                 _            413 

The  Dove,                                   -  -                -                _  4I5 

Maude's  Valentine,  -                 -            416 

A  Second,  -                 -  417 

Spring  of  1871,  4!9 

Summer  of  1871,  -                 -  421 

Autumn,  .                 .            423 

Winter,      -  .                    425 

Farewell  to  the  Departing  Year,  -                                              426 

Dying  Year,  _                 _  42& 

New  Coming  Year,  -                .            429 

The  Purchase  and  Unpaid  Debt,  -                 _  430 

The  Outcast,  -  -                .            432 

A  Passing  Thought,  -                 .  434 

War,                  -  436 

Our  Patriot  Band,    -  -                                  _  437 

Our  Slain,  -                                                439 

On  the  Death  of  my  dear  pupil,  A.  L.  Clement,    -  -  441 

Charlie,  -                 _                 .            443 

To  a  Mother,  _                .                -  451 

He  was  Laid  to  Rest  in  a  Soldier's  Home,     -  -            453 

January  ist,  1863,  Emancipation,  -                                  -            454 

Lincoln,    -                                  .  455 

The  Old  Flag,  .                 .            457 

United  We  Stand,  -  -                 _                 -  45& 
Address  to  a  Foreigner,  who  said :  "  The  Great  Republic  of 

America  was  lost,"  .                                     459 

Passage  of  the  Right's  Bill,  -                .            46o 

Bring  Flowers,  _  462 

The  Two  Sleepers,  .                .                -            463 

"  It  Might  have  been,"             -  ...  465 


xii  CONTENTS 


The  Lark, 

A  L-*nd-bird  at  Sea,  -  468 

Lines,  47<> 

Rank  and  File,  -  472 

44  And  they  were  Judged,"  474 

POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 

Spring,  the  Return  of  the  Swallows,       -  -  477 

The  little  Lady-bird,       -  47 8 

The  Bee,  -  479 

The  Ground  Sparrow,     -  4^o 

The  Garden  Canary,  -  4&i 

The  Caged  Oriole's  Lament  and  Death,  482 

Thrush's  Death,        -  -  484 

George  Washington  and  his  Hatchet,  486 

"  Papa !  How  can  they  get  it  out,"  -  488 

Did  you  Do  it  ?  489 

For  a  Little  Child,  -  -  49° 

The  Little  Girl's  Lament,  49 1 

Christ  Knows  All  Things,  -  492 
The  Falling  Leaf, 

Butterfly,  '  494 
The  Snow, 
God's  Hand  is  in  the  Wintry  Storm,        -                - 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  n 


Prairie. 

A  FEARFUL  thought  comes  o'er  me,  as  I  gaze 
On  thy  far-stretching  depths,  O  Flow'ry  maze! 
And  trace  the  sluggish  streams  that  interlave 
Thy  gorgeous  beauty  with  each  crystal  wave ; 
Then  backward  glance  across  the  flood  of  years, 
When  earth  first  took  her  place  among  the  spheres 
A  fearful  thought  enmolded  on  my  soul, 
As  mapp'd,  thou  liest  before  me,  Prairie  Scroll. 

A  spirit's  shuttle  weaves  with  tender  care, 
Into  an  em'rald  chain,  its  shadings  rare, 
Now  dotting,  here  and  there,  the  mystic  web 
With  golden  tintings  from  the  upper  glebe  ; 
The  upper  glebe  of  glory,  where  the  cloud 
Lifts  up  its  festoon'd  arm  and  draws  its  shroud 
From  off  the  golden  hues  of  the  bright  sun, 
Scatt'ring  them  broad-cast  o'er  thy  misty  zone ; 
And  sifting  from  that  reservoir  of  light, 
The  softer  mouldings  of  the  upper  height. 
Till  to  the  eye,  thou  earth-nook  of  God's  love, 
Weav'st  in  the  tintings  of  the  world  above : 
Leaving  no  color  on  earth's  rolling  breast, 
That  is  not  found  within  thy  waving  crest. 


12  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Our  thought  beholds  thee  in  the  far-gone  Past, 
As  when  a  serpent,  on  some  bright  scene  cast, 
Beholds  his  shadow  on  the  brilliant  sheen, 
And  back  recoils ;  then,  from  the  peaceful  scene, 
Drags  his  huge,  massive,  torpid  length  along, 
Weary  and  slow,  now  weak,  now  growing  strong, 
Till  inch  by  inch,  he  gains  the  damp,  dark  shade, 
Where  pois'nous  vapors  creep  from  off  the  glade, 
Leaving  the  scene,  by  contrast,  far  more  fair 
Than  if  no  reptile  had  been  shadow'd  there. 

So  we  behold  thee,  through  the  moving  vail 

Of  earth's  lunations.     Slowly,  offward  trail 

The  heaving  billows,  turbulent  and  slow, 

Offward,  still  offward  in  their  ever  flow, 

Till  inch  by  inch  appears,  and  rood  by  rood, 

Thy  cold,  damp  headland  merging  from  the  flood; 

Then  time's  deft  fingers  folded  back  and  bound 

The  crystal  curtains,  age  had  wrapp'd  thee  round ; 

Folded  them  softly  back.     So  stilly  slow, 

So  serpent-like  thy  sluggish  waters  flow, 

That  ages  scarcely  saw,  or  felt,  where  change 

Began,  and  carried  out  its  mystic  range; 

Till  from  thy  turf,  the  creeping  tide  crept  down 

And  life  sprang  free,  to  wear  the  bridal  crown. 

Backward  we  turn  us,  with  a  timid  look, 
But  the  hand  of  ages  had  lock'd  the  book, 
And  laid  the  key  in  eternity's  urn, 
To  be  given  up  when  earth's  on  a  burn : — 
Think  we  may  deeply,  and  speculate  long, 
Time  winks  at  our  folly  and  speeds  along. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  13 


Flake  of  eternity,  molded  for  man, 
Entyp'd  on  the  face  of  a  moments  span, 
Stretching  far  back,  to  the  ages  agone, 
And  stretching  far  on,  to  the  judgment  dawn ; 
We  gaze  on  thy  splendor,  drink  thy  perfume, 
Thou  beautiful  niche  in  our  Father's  home. 

Unlike  to  all  else,  on  sea,  or  on  land, 
Thy  steppings  are  stately,  thy  measures  grand, 
Thy  beauty  unique,  in  storm  or  repose, 
Mantled  in  colors,  or  draped  in  thy  snows. 
Seated  where  ages  had  blotted  the  spot, 
Thine  is  a  record  of  things  that  are  not ; 
Conjecture  runs  wild  while  reck'ning  thy  birth, 
Thou  beautiful  feature  of  heav'n  and  earth. 

But  this — is  present !  on  the  far-gone  past, 
Time's  iron  fingers  pinn'd  the  curtains  fast, 
Shutting  all  human  tracery  from  the  page 
Which  mortals  gaze  on,  in  the  present  age. 

But  ages  that  swept,  one  by  one,  along, 

The  cycles  that  crept  through  thy  mystic  throng, 

Pass'd  off  with  the  tide  of  the  restless  host, 

Whose  lot  had  been  cast  on  our  sinful  coast ; 

Like  to  the  vapor  that  passes  away, 

Like  to  the  flowers  that  bloom  to  decay, 

Like  to  the  colors  entranc'd  in  the  bow, 

Like  to  all  bright  things  that  fade  here  below  ; 

They  pass'd  from  our  earth,  on  their  silent  way, 

Pass'd  with  the  bright  things,  that  pass  to  decay. 


i4  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Thou  hast  graves  unmark'd  'neath  thy  flow'ry  bloom 

Where  sleep  the  idols  of  many  a  home  ; 

There  have  many  tear-drops  been  garnered  up, 

With  the  gathering  dew  in  thy  flower-cup  ; 

And  many  a  sigh  been  nestled  away, 

In  a  dreamy  nook,  where  a  loved  one  lay. 

But  none  can  measure  the  anguish  of  heart, 

That  wails  through  the  earth,  when  her  children  part : 

But  they  passed  away  in  the  long  ago, 

Those  tear-drops  of  grief,  those  accents  of  woe, 

And  now,  o'er  thy  sod,  bloom,  once  and  again, 

The  Hues  of  all  bright  things — too  bright  to  remain 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKLT.  35 


Time. 

A  GAINST  the  abutments  of  eternity, 
XlTime  wheels  his  massive  car,  silent  but  firm — 
Cog  after  cog,  upon  the  eternal  pier, 
Rolls  tensely  up  with  its  strange  load  aboard. 

Heaven-poised,  and  girded  for  the  mighty  race, 
O'er  land  and  water — through  the  vap'ry  air, 
Unheard,  unfelt,  unknown  his  stately  march, 
Save  by  the  headlights,  swung  from   Heaven's  dome 
To  tell  us  mortals,  time  was  on  his  way 
With  his  lull-freighted  car. 

And  as  he  dropped  the  moments  in  life's  cup, 
We've  listened  for  his  footfall,  or  some  sound, 
To  speak  his  presence  ;  but  'twas  all  in  vain ! 
For  swift  as  lightning,  noiseless  as  the  dead, 
Steward  of  God's  perfect  gifts,  he  passed  by  none ; 
But  scattered,  as  he  wheeled  his  circling  car, 
The  impress  of  his  name  on  every  brow, 
And  left  it  uneffaced  and  all  undimmed . 
While  on  each  heart,  he  sealed  a  mystic  spell 
For  after  years  to  solve. 


16  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Time,  restless  time,  slow-paced  and  yet  how  fleet ! 
Measuring  the  moments  off  with  clock-work  tread, 
Keeping  their  secrets  for  the  judgment  day, 
And  fleetly  bearing  on  the  jeweled  thoughts 
To  the  grand  gath'ring  of  eternity. 

Thought,  deathless  thought !  outliving  time  and  space, 
Wayward  and  flitting  as  a  breath  of  air- 
Transient  and  silent — like  a  spirit's  sigh, 
We  simply  know  'twas  here,  then  passed  along, 
Leaving  its  impress  on  the  checkered  scenes 
Of  mortal  weal  and  woe — yet  checked  by  Time, 
To  every  man's  account,  for  realms  unseen. 

Time,  fleeting  time !    We  would  not  have  thee  pause — 

Not  yet — not  yet,  Oh,  Time.     Press  on !  still  on  ! 

And  through  the  crowding  years  of  weal  and  woe, 

Place  every  moment  in  its  little  niche — 

Not  missing  one — not  one — for  who  could  bear 

To  make  that  fatal  leap  to  nothingness, 

Though  that  blank  void  a  tiny  moment  be. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  17 


Cycles  Round  and  Ages  Fly. 

T1LEETING,  Fleeting,  sadly  fleeting, 
JL      Oh,  ye  moments,  move  more  slow ; 
Bear  not  off  the  tender  greeting, 
Stamp  its  impress  here  below. 

Swiftly,  swiftly,  oh,  too  swiftly ! 

Days  and  months  and  years  speed  by ; 
Speak  we  loud  or  breathe  we  softly, 

Cycles  round,  and  ages  fly. 

Darkly,  darkly,  oh,  how  darkly ! 

Shadows  gather  round  our  home ; 
Watch  we  late  or  wake  we  early, 

Nations  fill  the  silent  tomb. 

Weeping,  weeping,  wherefore  weeping? 

Chastened  soul,  kneel  down  and  pray, 
Loving  ones  in  Jesus  sleeping, 

Soon  will  wake  to  endless  day. 

Upward,  Christian,  climb  thee,  upward  ! 

Guardian  angels  hover  nigh ; 
Never  ceasing,  press  thee  onward, 

Toward  our  father's  house  on  high. 

Waiting,  waiting,  gently  waiting, 
Mercy  points  to  heaven's  gate ; 

Falter  not,  the  day  is  waning, 
Enter  ere  it  be  too  late. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


We  Live  in  an  Age  of  Wonder 

fE  live  in  an  age  of  wonder, 
And  Time's  cycles  hurry  by ; 
We  are  gathering  drifts  of  grandeur, 
From  the  siftings  of  the  sky. 

We  are  girding  earth  with  lightning, 
And  clasping  it,  to  a  thought; 

And  up  where  the  clouds  are  fighting, 
Our  ships  on  the  air-tide  float. 

We  act  the  thinkings  of  ages, 
And  mine  for  the  hidden  key ; 

To  unlock  the  secret  pages, 
Of  the  cycles  yet  to  be. 

Our  sun  is  tugging  and  toiling, 

To  divest  himself  of  years  ; 
And  his  flaming  breath  is  coiling 

Round  the  tressings  of  the  spheres 

There  're  signs  in  the  heavens  above  us, 
And  marvels  in  earth  below; 

Time's  fugitive  moment  rushes, 
And  his  cycles  come  and  go. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  19 

Each  crash  in  the  flight  of  ages, 

Each  creak  in  the  trembling  car ; 
But  echo  the  warning  of  sages, 

"  The  great  judgment  day  is  near." 

Great  God  of  the  by-gone  ages, 

Of  the  ages  yet  to  be  ; 
So  teach  us  to  read  the  pages, 

That  tell  of  eternity ; 

So  teach  us  to  heed  their  warning, 

So  teach  us  to  watch  and  pray  ; 
That  heaven  may  be  ours,  that  morning 

When  our  earth-homes  melt  away. 


20  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Broken  Vow. 


A  BOOK  was  open,  and  a  daisy  lay, 
In  its  sweet,  modest  garb,  withered  and  dead, 
Upon  time's  rusty  page  of  other  years ; 
Yet  speaking  still  of  beauty,  modest,  sweet, 
Of  eyes  once  full  of  joy  and  quiet  rest, 
Now  folded  softly  up,  in  those  dark  lids, 
To  look  their  love  no  more  on  earthly  things ; 
Yet  leaving  impress,  on  this  lowly  bloom, 
Of  life  and  death,  of  love  and  trusting  faith ; 
Even  when  the  tomb  had  folded  in  the  form, 
Leaving  the  soul  uncaged  to  waft  on  high, 
And  range  the  streets  of  New  Jerusalem. 

Days,  weeks  and  months  have  pass'd,  and  years, 
Joyous  and  sad,  now  sleep  among  the  gone, 
With  their  full  tide  of  thoughts,  known  save  to  Him, 
Who  holds  thought's  fiat  in  His  mighty  hand, 
Unbolts,  or  bolts,  her  flood-gates  at  His  will. 

With  pencil  skilled  to  trace  the  pictured  scene, 
The  bright  and  joyous  sweep — wings  mounting  high 
Over  the  turbid  tide  of  cloud  and  storm, 
Where  earth's  dark  tumult  reached  no  list'ner's  ear, 
Where  fancy  wrote  no  ill  on  all  life's  page, 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  21 


But  bathed  each  pois'nous  dart  with  pity's  tear, 
And  waved  the  hateful  out  with  buoyant  wing, 
Too  feathery  light  for  hope  and  hope's  blest  dream — 
So  stood  the  past,  before  my  'wildered  gaze. 

The  page  that  lay  between  the  two  great  points, 
I  could  not  read — 'Twas  writ  with  mystic  pen, 
And  bleared  and  blurred,  erased  and  writ  again ; 
Then  dimmed  beneath  the  heavy  tread  of  time, 
As  on,  forever,  rushed  his  scoring  years, 
In  quick  succession,  back,  no  more  to  come. 

A  silken  knot — its  color  long  had  gone — 
Had  bound  that  daisy  to  the  dimming  page, 
Hiding  these  words, "  Tis  said  !  The  deed  is  done  !" 
And  then  I  knew  there  had  been  words,  and  deeds 
Too  sad  for  earth — too  tearful  for  the  sky  ; 
And  so  were  hid  from  pleading  eyes  of  time, 
And  hushed  forever  to  dull  pity's  ear. 

Yes,  there  had  words  been  said,  and  deeds  been  done : 
But  who  had  done  it  all,  and,  Why  ?  O,  Why  ? 
Those  words  were  there,  the  knot — the  auburn  tress, 
And  they  had  been  the  casket.     There,  concealed 
Had  slept,  for  years,  the  wail  of  dying  hopes, 
Wrung  from  a  young  and  tender,  trusting  heart. 
Unsought,  it  sprung  to  light — uncalled,  it  spoke 
The  tale,  to  me  unknown — till  then,  unheard — 
Of  broken  vows,  laid  up  for  judgment  day; 
Of  him,  a  sordid,  scheming — faithless  soul, 
Wed  to  the  world  and  self. 


22  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


From  a  bronzed  frame,  two  lustrous  eyes  looked  down, 

So  proudly  grave,  and  yet  so  sweet  and  kind, 

I  questioned  their  deep  depths-whence  came  the  spell, 

Which  o'er  my  being  crept,  and  said  to  me, 

"  Thou'st  read  a  secret,  sacred  to  the  dead." 

Though  word  came  not,  nor  sound,  yet  there  I  stood, 

Desirous  to  retreat,  yet  hasting  not ; 

Feeling  myself  defeated,  put  to  flight, 

And  yet,  so  loth  to  yield. 

In  those  dark  eyes,  I  read  a  trusting  faith, 

A  quiet  joy  that  seldom  falls  to  man 

In  this  cold,  changeful  world  of  sin  and  woe — 

A  calm,  sweet  peace,  that  leaned  upon  her  faith 

In  one  strong  arm — to  her,  one  perfect  soul— 

And  she,  so  young,  so  full  of  hope's  bright  dreams 

Of  earthly  love,  and  earthly  paradise. 

Beside  it,  grave,  attenuated,  sad, 
With  hectic  cheek,  and  eyes  too  full  of  light, 
Hung  yet  another  portrait,  still  so  young! 
That  hectic  cheek,  those  eyes  too  sad  for  tears, 
Read  me  the  tale  I  had  not  dared  to  ask. 

Long  years  had  pass'd,  familiar  forms  had  gone ; 
And  eyes,  that  once  wept  on,  had  ceased  to  weep ; 
And  hearts,  that  beat  in  unison  with  hearts, 
Had  beat  their  last.     The  circling  tide  press'd  back 
On  the  cold  heart,  to  rest  forever  more, 
While  busy  hands  had  long  lain  cold  and  still. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  23 


Not  so  the  spirit — in  her  onward  flight 

Her  wing  had  soared  beyond  our  mortal  ken, 

And  we,  short-sighted  we,  must  halt  this  side ; 

And  gather  only  the  poor,  weeping  part 

Of  man's  dramatic  life-work  here  below— 

How  poor — how  sad  and  weeping,  none  may  know; 

For  the  dark,  sweeping  tempest  of  the  years 

Oft  sweeps  each  vestige  from  the  scanning  eye 

Of  wondering,  watchful,  sympathizing  man. 

'Tis  only  now  and  then,  we  catch  such  glimpse 
Of  dark  hypocrisy,  of  hate  and  scorn  : 
Scorn  for  the  hypocrite,  whose  words  were  one 
And  works  another  thing ;  and  so  it  grew, 
Corroding  every  thought,  and  all  the  thought ; 
A  mystery  ever  murmuring  on, 
To  be  unriddled  never,  this  side  heaven, 
But  ever  wid'ning,  ever  deepening  still, 
Till  life-blood  went  and  came,  and  came  and  went, 
And  left  its  hectic  flush  upon  the  cheek  ; 
And  o'er  the  eye  a  brilliant  luster  shed, 
That  spoke  the  conflict  slowly  ebbing  out. 
Not  conflict  now,  'tween  love  and  hate — Oh  no  ! 
The  one  had  died,  and  in  its  stead  was  hate ; 
But  sad  and  slow,  that  hate  was  going  out, 
In  the  sweet  peace  and  love  of  Him,  who  said, 
'  Vengeance  belongs  to  me."  She  clasped  her  hands — 
"  As  God  forgives,"  fell  on  the  loos'ning  cord — 
It  broke — and  angels  from  the  courts  above 
Caught  the  immortal  life,  and  bore  it  home. 


24  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


And  he — yes,  he — across  his  after-life, 
Forever  draw  the  vail.     'Twere  best  it  die — 
That  sad  example — better,  far,  it  die, 
And  be  forgotten,  till  the  judgment  morn 
Unclasps  the  folded  page,  and  to  the  world 
And  angels,  reads  "As  done  to  one  of  these, 
Ye  did  to  me." 

His  selfish  schemes  and  fame  availed  him  naught, 
He'd  cast  aside  a  treasure — sowed  the  wind — 
The  whirlwind  reaped, — and  all  the  laws  of  Him, 
Who  said,"  Be  just,  Oh  man,  with  God,"  were  scorned 
And  cast  aside,  and  thus,  though  lauded,  praised, 
And  courted — his  end  was  sad  and  fearful. 
Farther,  venture  not. 

And  these  were  they,  whose  lives  ran  parallel, 
And  yet  so  near,  as  they  had  been  but  one, 
Till  with  rude  hand,  he  snapped  the  binding  cord ; 
And  let  the  soul  drift  out  on  earth's  dark  tide, 
Nor  cared  he  where — Christ  took  the  broken  cord, 
And  with  it,  bound  the  spirit  to  His  breast. 
And  then,  I  read  from  God's  eternal  word  : 
Such  "  shall  be  mine,  when  I  make  up  my  jewels." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  25 


Life's  Bark. 

T1LOATING  along  o'er  the  ocean  of  ages, 

JL    Fearless  and  swift,  glides  my  own  trembling  bark. 

A  Power  unseen,  all  its  pathway  gauges, 

Guiding  its  course  through  the  sunshine  and  dark 

Onward  it  bounds,  where  the  mad  billow  surges, 
Gath'ring  new  strength  as  it  speeds  on  its  way: 

Tempests  and  calms  it  defies,  while  it  urges 
Onward  its  race  to  the  great  reck'ning  day. 

Steady  and  firm  !  through  the  dark  night  of  sorrow — 
Though  many  a  bark  may  speed  from  my  gaze ; 

Yet  in  the  future,  there  lingers  a  morrow, 
Guarded  and  kept  by  the  Ancient  of  Days. 

Onward,  frail  bark,  to  the  great  tidal  gath'ring ! 

Through  portals  of  grace  press  up  the  bright  maze  ! 
Anchor  thy  trust,  in  the  great  judgment  morning, 

Close  to  the  throne  of  the  Ancient  of  Days. 


26  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Thoughts  of  a  School  Girl, 

ON    HEARING    REV.    LYMAN    BEECHER    FOR    THE    FIRST    TIME. 

¥E  sometimes  see  the  monarch  oak, 
With  its  majestic,  lofty  form, 
Shattered  beneath  the  lightning-stroke, 

Or  rifted  by  the  howling  storm  ; 
Its  acorns  scattered  far  and  near, 
Springing  to  life  beside  a  dyke, 
Creeping  to  peerage,  year  by  year, 
Though  not  alike,  and  yet,  so  like. 

So,  tower  minds  of  giant  mold, 

Gifted  by  the  Almighty  God : 
So,  stand,  like  bulwarks  strong  and  bold, 

The  host  that  tread  as  Jesus  trod  : 
Till  death  with  lightning  stroke  sweeps  down 

And  lays  the  tall  head  in  the  dust, 
Robs  the  rude  monarch  of  its  crown, 

Leaving  its  giant  form  to  rust. 

Yet  scatt'ring  from  that  tow'r  of  strength, 

Embryo  germs  of  coming  mind; 
Whose  stalwart  imagery,  at  length, 

Shall  prove  them  of  a  kindred  kind, 
Unlike,  and  yet  like  Him  laid  low, 

They  seek  His  place,  draw  for  His  lot : 
And  hurl  defiance  at  the  foe 

From  sanctified  and  holy  thought. 


* 
THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  27 


Far  back  on  eve  that  comes  no  more, 

We  watch'd  the  gathering  of  a  crowd, 
For  there  had  pass'd  from  door  to  door, 

The  name,  of  which  we  all  were  proud : 
We  saw  our  pastor  thread  the  aisle, 

Mount  the  tall  steps  and  take  his  seat, 
And  whispered  to  ourselves,  the  while  ; 

"  This  disappointment  will  be  great." 

One  came  in  plain  simplicity, — 

A  whisper  through  our  great  choir  rang, 
"  'Tis  Beecher !"  but  indignantly, 

I  answered  back  "'tis  not  the  man'.' 
Had  I  not  read  his  lofty  words  ? 

Learn'd  of  his  giant  strength  of  mind  ? 
Was  he  not  one  of  earth's  tall  lords, 

Noble,  majestic, bland,  refined? 

It  mounts  the  steps — that  nervous  tread, — 

Breathless  I  gaze — What  could  it  mean  ?• 
Beside  my  pastor,  head  by  head, 

The  stranger  seats  himself  serene : 
At  length,  a  hush  is  on  the  throng, 

The  tread  of  busy  feet  is  still, 
Ended  the  Sabbath's  opening  song, 

And  softly  dies  the  organ's  peal. 

It  came  at  last,  that  massive  probe, 

From  a  great  heart  by  heaven  taught  ; 

Each  word,  wing'd  with  a  giant  throb, 

Held  spell-bound  every  wayward  thought. 


28  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


I'd  learn'd  by  then,  this  was  the  man, 

Whose  thunder  shook  New  England's  shore; 

And  roll'd  along  the  vale  and  glen, 

Through  every  mountain,  pass  and  pore. 

I  learn'd  a  lesson  then,  and  there, 

That  greatness  lay  in  heart,  not  form ; 
That  men  of  might  are  men  of  prayer, 

Walking  with  God  in  calm  and  storm ; 
That  like  the  oak,  that  stalwart  mind 

Had  towered  toward  the  upper  height, 
Its  highest  aspirations  twined 

Among  the  meshwork  of  heaven's  light. 

Till  from  Christ's  many-mansioned  home, 
A  voice  said,  softly,  "  Spirit,  come  /" 
One  step,  the  swelling  tide  was  crost 
His  mantle  fell !     Oh,  was  it  lost  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  29 


Sweeping  Onward  Forever. 

OVER  the  earthly  forevermore, 
Sweep  we  along  to  another  shore; 
Swifter  the  cartel — shorter  the  day, 
That  bears  us  on  to  the  Far-away ; 
Bears  us  along  in  its  upward  flight, 
Up,  from  our  dark  days,  up  from  our  night, 
Bears  us  along,  so  silent  and  true, 
To  gather  flowers,  where  skies  are  new. 

Over  the  world,  where  the  lightning's  stroke 
Rifts  the  huge  mountain,  shatters  the  oak, 
Over  its  mildew,  over  its  blight, 
Sweep  we  along,  by  day  and  by  night, 
Viewless  the  steeds  by  which  we  are  drawn, 
Viewless  the  Hand  that  guideth  them  on  ; 
But  stayless  ever,  by  night  and  by  day, 
Sweep  we  along  to  the  Far-away. 

Over  the  world,  where  our  loved  ones  lay, 
Mold'ring  to  dust,  we're  sweeping  away ; 
Borne  o'er  the  pavement  of  starry-hight, 
Pois'd  on  the  wing  of  a  world  at  flight ; 
Onward — right  on — we're  sweeping  o'er  all, 
Her  bridal  robe — her  funeral  pall ; 


3o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Her  towering  spires,  and  castle-domes, 
We're  sweeping  o'er  them,  to  other  homes. 

Over  the  world  in  our  darkest  life, 
Sweep  we  onward,  from  turmoil  and  strife, 
Nor  do  we  ask  when  the  end  will  be, 
Since  Jesus  measures  our  destiny ; 
Though  long  or  short  our  journey  may  be, 
Its  path  is  straight  to  eternity  ; 
And  all  we  do,  while  passing  away, 
Is  being  done  for  the  judgment  day. 


THE  PRAIRTE  CASKET.  31 


On  the  Beach  of  Life. 

OTANDING  on  the  beach  of  life, 
k)  'Midst  the  billow's  howling  strife; 
With  that  deep  and  muffled  tone, 
Whisp'ring  of  the  ages  gone, 
Waited  I,  upon  the  shore, 
For  a  bark  to  take  me  o'er. 

While  I  stood  in  musing  thought, 
Weeping  o'er  my  hapless  lot, 
Many  barks  swept  gaily  past, 
In  the  tight'ning,  rough'ning  blast  • 
And  I  saw  with  sad  dismay, 
Twilight  turned  to  iron  gray. 

Wreck'd  upon  time's  dismal  shore , 
Why?  and,. Wherefore  ?  evermore 
Stole  into  my  weary  brain, 
To  die  out,  then  come  again  ; 
While  the  night,  its  darkened  fold 
Plaited  round  a  sleeping  world. 

Silent  moments  swept  along, 

O'er  earth's  hushed  and  sleeping  throng; 

But  to  me,  my  fancy  said : 

"  I  can  hear  time's  silent  tread, 

And  can  feel  his  chilly  breath, 

As  he  meets  an<i  grapples  death." 


32  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Midnight  folded  down  its  wing, 
O'er  the  gay  and  sorrowing  ; 
Kindly  sang  a  soft,  low  strain, 
O'er  the  couch  of  care  and  pain  ; 
None  might  hear  it,  save  but  those, 
Bowed  by  sorrow — crushed  by  woes. 

But  that  song  belong'd  to  me; 
And  I  caught  its  melody 
Beating  back  from  days  gone  by, 
To  the  ages  as  they  fly ; 
Mingling  in  the  voices  three 
Present — Past — Futurity. 

Past,  vociferous  and  bold — 
Gleeful,  sad,  and  often  cold — 
Shouting  in  the  conqueror's  train, 
Wailing  o'er  the  tombless  slain  ; 
Winding  upward  as  by  stealth 
With  its  hordes  of  rusting  wealth. 

o 

Present,  like  a  fleeting  thought, 
Scarcely  formed,  before  forgot ; 
Hasting  on  with  fleet-winged  pace, 
While  the  future  takes  its  place, 
Robed  and  masked,  in  smiles  and  tears, 
To  write  the  requiem  of  years. 

Standing  where  past  ages  swept, 
Weeping  where  the  dead  have  wept ; 
Came  that  question,  o'er  and  o'er, 
"  Wherefore  weeping  on  this  shore  ? 
"  Why  so  lonely  ?     Why  so  lost?" 
Questioned  me,  the  billowy  host. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Ling'ring  on  the  sad  word,  " Lost'' 
While  Time's  ocean,  onward,  toss'd  : 
From  the  heav'ns  a  ladder  swung. 
Myriad  angels  to  it  clung, 
And  the  bleeding  hand  of  love, 
Beckoned  me  to  joys  above. 

Then  I  knew  my  Father's  bark 
Waited  me  through  storm  and  dark ; 
Knew  the  souls  that  were  on  board, 
Had  been  ransomed  by  the  Lord — 
Knew  that  Christ  was  their  defense  ; 
And  no  power  could  pluck  them  hence. 

What  has  feeble  man  to  fear, 
Though  the  tempest  hover  near ; 
Though  the  angry  seas  of  strife 
Intercept  his  mortal  life  : 
Christ  to  heaven  will  bring  his  own. 
Safe  and  sure,  not  missing  one. 


33 


34  THE  PRAIRlE  CASKET. 


Life's  Web. 

¥E're  weaving  a  web  for  eternity, 
From  the  shifting  and  drifting  scenes  oi  Time, 
Weaving  the  flickering  hues  of  to-day, 
As  the  shuttle  flies  in  its  wild,  weird  way, 
And  the  moments  reel  off  the  colored  ray ; 
And  the  dial  measures  the  silent  chime, 
While  grading  the  key  to  a  changing  rhyme. 

We  are  daily  weaving  in,  thread  by  thread, 
And  the  woof  creeps  in  at  the  open  pore, 
While  the  great  lathe  swings  with  its  iron  tread, 
And  our  brightest  hopes  fall  withered  and  dead, 
And  are  woven  into  the  changeful  shred, 
That  stretches  right  onward,  forevermore, 
To  the  boundless  depths  of  the  untried  shore. 

We're  weaving  this  web  where  the  wild  flow'rs  blow 
We're  weaving  this  web  in  the  halls  of  state, 

We're  planning  and  weaving  where'er  we  go, 

In  the  blinding  mists  and  the  drifting  snow; 

Weaving  it  where  the  bright  rivulets  flow, 
Weaving  it  early  and  weaving  it  late, 
Weaving,  while  embers  die  out  in  the  grate. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  35 


We're  a  motley  group,  and  we're  weavers  all, 

And  our  webs  stretch  on,  to  the  judgment  dawn, 
Weaving  gay  colors,  or  weaving  the  pall, 
While  the  lights  grow  dim  in  the  parlor  hall — 
And  weaving  right  on,  though  the  night  shades  fall, 
Till  the  weary  weaver,  forbidd'n  to  stay, 
Drops  his  weird  shuttle ;  and  passes  away. 

Brothers  and  sisters,  we're  weaving  this  web, 
Roughly  or  skillfully  grading  the  shade  ; 

Weaving  when  day-dawn  first  falls  on  the  glebe, 

And  weaving  still  on,  while  the  night  hours  ebb ; 

Weaving,  still  weaving,  more  slow  or  more  glib, 
As  deeds  fill  the  shuttle,  and  weave  the  shade 
From  woof,  which  the  spindle  of  ages  made. 
We  are  weaving  this  life-long  web. 


36  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Ages. 

COUNTLESS  ages,  gone  before, 
\J  Look  upon  us  from  The  Yore, 
Look  upon  us,  face  to  face, 
With  a  constant,  kindly  grace; 
Ever  holding  to  our  view, 
Darkened  waters,  waded  through. 

Ages  point  the  dangerous  shoals, 
Or  the  dreadful  whirling  pools, 
And  we  gladly  catch  a  gleam, 
Of  a  placid  little  stream, 
Where  our  wearied  limbs  may  lave, 
Fearless  of  a  hidden  grave. 

Ages  bid  us  heed  the  word, 
Spoken  to  us  by  the  Lord, 
Though  our  unenlightened  eye 
No  good  reason  can  descry, 
Why  we  may  not  plainly  see 
All  its  hidden  mystery. 

Ages  hold  a  graded  lamp, 
With  each  generation's  stamp, 
Showing  where  the  pitfalls  lay, 
Where  the  pathway  led  astray, 
How  to  shun,  and  how  to  choose, 
What  accept  and  what  refuse. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  37 

Ages  leave  immortal  thought, 
Stamped  on  every  earthly  spot, 
Thoughts  on  holy,  lofty  themes, 
Welling  forth  in  living  streams 
Irrigating  as  they  flow  : 
Constant,  pure,  to  all  below. 


Ages  tell  the  matchless  love, 
Coming  from  the  courts  above, 
How  the  interest  of  the  skies 
Clusters  where  a  Saviour  lies, 
Tell  us  of  those  wondrous  songs 
Sung  to  man  by  angel  tongues. 


Ages  tell  us  of  that  cup, 
Drained  on  Calvary's  sacred  top, 
And  the  piercing  crown  of  thorns, 
And  the  scourging  and  the  scorns, 
With  the  cold  derisive  laugh, 
And  the  stern  contempt  and  scoff. 


Ages  press  that  Day  made  night, 
On  our  sad,  bewildered  sight, 
Trumpet  to  our  cold,  deaf  ear, 
Words  that  chill  the  heart  with  fear, 
When  went  up  that  weeping  cry, 
To  His  Father  in  the  sky. 


38  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


When  went  up  that  bitter  plea, 
"  Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ?" 
Bid  that  echoing  peal  roll  on, 
To  the  resurrection  dawn  ; 
That  each  grieving  heart  may  know 
What  a  grief  Christ  waded  through. 


Oh,  if  that  deep  shade  of  night 

Had  remained  upon  our  sight, 

If,  indeed,  our  God  had  left 

His  dear  son  of  love  bereft, 

If  he  had  brought  him  to  that  day 

To  be  mock'd  and  turn'd  away : 


How  could  darkness  ever  lift 
From  a  wearied  heart,  adrift, 
On  a  plunging,  heaving  tide 
With  a  Pilot  for  a  guide, 
Who,  midst  anguish  desolate, 
Turns  and  leaves  him  to  his  fate? 


But  they  turn  another  phase, 
Glorious  most  of  every  grace, 
And  it  gently  quells  the  strife 
To  that  dying,  rising  life ; 
And  it  gently  paves  the  way 
To  the  crowning  of  That  Day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  39 


Now  no  more  that  bitter  plea, 
"  Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ?" 
But  a  trust,  sublimely  grand — 
"  My  Father,  into  thy  hand. 
My  spirit  I  commend  " — then 
Hastened  on,  the  great  Amen. 


Darkness,  deeper,  gathers  round 

Silence,  awful,  stern,  profound, 

When  again  that  voice  is  heard, 

"  It  is  finished  !"  and  the  word 

Flash'd  throughout  the  rock-ribb'd  earth, 

Rifting  each  foundation  girth. 


Finished!  oh,  that  wondrous  word! 
Earth  awakes  to  know  her  Lord ; 
Shakes  her  huge  and  massive  frame ; 
Veils  her  frowning  face  in  shame ; 
Sits  in  silence  dark  and  cold ; 
While  death  wraps  his  mantling  fold. 


Who  may  tell  what  awful  night 
Sunk  on  all,  in  sternest  might, 
Dark — such  dark  !  and  icy  cold 
Wrapp'd  the  earth  in  tightening  fold, 
Clogging  every  laboring  breath, 
With  an  almost  certain  death. 


40  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


Graves,  where  buried  love  was  laid, 
Years  ago, — yea,  ages,  dead, 
Felt  that  death  in  all  their  pores, 
Flung  aside  their  massive  doors ; 
But  were  silent,  cold  and  still, 
Till  the  Savior  rent  death's  veil. 


All  creation  felt  the  stroke ; 
Other  worlds  indignant  woke; 
Spirits  sought  on  earth  again, 
Tenements  flung  off  in  pain, 
Walked  the  earth,  as  we  now  walk, 
Talked  with  men,  as  we  now  talk. 


But  past  ages  never  tell, 
When  on  earth,  they  ceased  to  dwell, 
Whether  long  or  short  their  stay, 
When,  or  how,  they  passed  away- 
If  they  left  their  earthly  post 
With  Christ's  Sacramental  host. 


Ages  have  withheld  that  scene, 
Glittering  with  immortal  sheen, 
Only  He,  the  Son  of  God, 
Pass'd  into  the  heavenly  cloud — 
Other  impress  should  not  be, 
Save,  The  Christ  that  died  for  me. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  41 


Thus  is  stamp'd  in  living  fire 
God's  great  love  and  Satan's  ire ; 
Stamp'd  upon  the  page  of  time, 
For  our  guide  to  heaven's  clime, 
Wading  through  six  thousand  years, 
Soothing  grief,  and  drying  tears. 


Since  the  first  command  was  given, 
"Thou  shalt  love  the  God  of  heaven," 
Myriad  hosts  have  anchored  There, 
Myriads  more,  gone  to  despair ; 
But  that  first  command  remains, 
Immutable  as  He,  who  reigns. 


Ages'  footprints  mark  our  sod, 
With  the  impress  of  our  God; 
Small  and  great,  alike  to  me, 
Speak  the  Triune  Deity: 
Nation's  rise,  and  nation's  fall, 
Speak,  Jehovah,  Lord  of  all. 


Question  dare,  "  Is  there  a  God  ?" 
Mite,  the  smallest  on  our  sod, 
Answers  with  its  short-lived  ray, 
"  Fool,  thou  provest  this  very  day, 
By  thy  being  on  this  sod, 
There  is — an  over-ruling  God." 


42  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


We  Met  At  The  Crossings. 

WE  MET  at  the  crossings  and  went  our  ways, 
In  childhood's  dawn — in  our  halcyon  days  ; 
But  we'd  laid  our  plans  and  planted  a  tree, 
That  should  witness  for  us,  my  cousin  and  me. 

That  morning  has  gone,  but  the  dusty  roads 
Trend  on,  as  they  did,  to  those  dear  abodes ; 
And  the  sun  shines  bright,  as  it  did  that  day, 
When  we  met  at  the  crossings  and  chose  our  way 

A  delicate  girl  with  her  meek  blue  eyes, 
Seemed  born  for  a  world  where  no  flower  dies, 
And  her  childish  voice  had  a  tender  tone, 
Betokening  the  child  from  her  childhood  gone. 

And  we,  we  had  met  to  meet  no  more, 
Till  we  meet  up  there  on  the  other  shore  ; 
But  the  binding  tie  of  that  witness  tree — 
Will  it  witness  for  us  in  eternity? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  43 


There's  a  bright,  green  spot  I  may  never  see, 
Nor  the  gnarled  limbs  of  our  witness  tree, 
For  years  have  gone  by,  and  space  lies  between 
That  tableau  of  love  and  life's  present  scene. 

Yet  it  ends  not  here  with  the  flying  years, 
It  dies  not  out  in  this  valley  of  tears  ; 
But  up  from  this  world  of  care  and  strife, 
We  will  talk  it  all  o'er  'neath  the  tree  of  life. 


44  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Swift  That  Day  Is  Coming. 

WHO  will  live  to  see  it — see  that  scene  so  vast, 
When  God's  trump   awaketh  with  its  thrilling 

blast  ? 

Live  to  see  the  heavens  rolling  up  its  shroud, 
Shaking  down  its  star-crown — wiping  out  its  cloud? 

O,  that  day  is  coming,  fleet  as  moments  fly, 
When  begins  the  folding  of  the  upper  sky ! 
When  its  sad  departure  winds  up  roll  by  roll, 
Like  the  fleecy  texture  of  a  flying  scroll. 

Swift  that  day  is  coming  when  our  brilliant  sun 
Wakes  no  more  the  morning,  gilds  no  more  the  noon ; 
Coming,  swiftly  coming,  like  a  rolling  flood, 
And  our  moon,  full  rounded,  turns  to  crimson  blood. 

Who  may  bide  the  coming  of  that  dreadful  day, 
When  the  Isles  and  mountains  quickly  pass  away ; 
When  onr  earthly  flooring  melts  with  fervid  heat, 
And  the  soul  immortal  nears  the  judgment  seat  ? 

In  that  great  eternal — in  the  rush  of  thought 
Asking  all  the  past  life — where  will  fall  thy  lot, 
Midst  the  trumpet's  clangor,  waking  every  tomb, 
Where,  my  soul,  O  ponder  !     Where  will  be  thy  home  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  45 


What  We  Would  Like. 


E  would  like  the  golden  harvest, 
But  never  to  plow  and  sow ; 

We  would  like  to  be  the  bravest, 
If  no  valiant  deeds  to  do. 

We  would  like  the  meed  of  courage, 
If  another  turn  the  blow; 

We  would  like  the  rich  equipage, 
If  another  pay  the  due. 

We  would  like  to  be  the  wisest, 
With  no  pains  to  make  us  so ; 

We  would  like  to  be  the  meekest, 
If  we  did  not  have  to  bow. 

We  would  like  to  be  a  Christian 
If  earth's  pleasures  made  us  so ; 

We  would  like  to  go  to  heaven, 
If  our  pleasures,  too,  can  go. 

So  we  do  the  plodder's  mission, 
With  the  plodder's  empty  gain  ; 

For  the  talent  roll'd  in  napkin, 
But  a  talent  will  remain. 


46  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


A 


Brain,  A  Workshop. 

WEARY  thought  stood  still  awhile, 
Waiting  as  for  a  pleasant  smile  ; 
Then  wrapp'd  her  mantle  close  around, 
And  hush'd  her  wish  to  rest  profound. 


'Twas  gently  hush'd  when  balmy  sleep 
Sat  at  its  gate,  in  silence  deep, 
Planning,  no  doubt,  for  wild  tirade 
As  waning  shadows  left  the  glade. 

Poor  thought  lay  dormant,  but  her  train 
Of  Elfin  sisters  sought  the  brain  ; 
All  with  their  work  of  weal  or  woe, 
Leaving  no  footprints  as  they  go. 

Leaving  no  footprints?     Joy  or  pain 
Sits  in  the  workshop  of  the  brain  ; 
Joyous  or  sad,  as  case  may  be, 
Lock'd  up  at  times,  by  workshop  key. 

In  deepest  sleep,  this  key  is  turn'd, 
The  workshop  closed  to  all  concern'd, 
And  that  night's  spirit-work  is  done, 
And  lost  to  all  below  the  Sun. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  47 

But  let  dull  slumber  careless  be, 
And  footprints,  steep'd  in  agony, 
Will  haunt  the  too  distrustful  hour, 
And  cast  a  gloom  o'er  hall  and  bow'r. 

But  scene  may  change  and  there  may  be 
Such  light  footprints  of  joy  and  glee  ; 
We  seem  to  catch  the  line  we  trace, 
And  bask  in  beauty,  love  and  grace. 

Though  phantom-like  our  dreams  may  be, 
And  they  are  clothed  in  mystery, 
They  each  an  office  have  on  earth 
Of  much  to  us,  or  little  worth. 

But  brain  is  active — never  still — 
No  workshop  of  the  creature's  will — 
Awake— asleep — at  home — abroad  — 
Brain  pulsates  by  the  will  of  God. 


48  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Gathering  Up  Each  Footfall  Of  The  Trodden 

Way. 

I'M    STANDING  on  th'   hillside,  listening  to  the 

brook ; 

Kneeling  where  the  fountain  mirrors  every  look; 
Watching  in  the  morning,  when  its  early  lay 
Wakes  a  timid  measure  for  the  tripping  day. 

Resting  in  the  valley,  when  the  noonday  sun 
Drops  its  golden  tressings  downward,  one  by  one  ; 
Knotting  loops  of  glory,  twining  light  and  shade 
Through  the  verdant  meshings  of  the  forest  glade. 

List'ning  for  the  music  that  will  come  no  more ; 
Yearning  for  the  voices  from  the  other  shore  ; 
Gath'ring  up  each  footfall  of  the  trodden  way  ; 
Every  tender  lisping  of  the  by-gone  day. 

Weeping  for  all  bright  things  that  have  passed  away ; 
All  the  missing  loved  ones  of  our  earthly  day  ; 
Weeping,  shrinking,  sighing,  in  this  world  of  fear, 
O'er  death's  chilly  frostings,  and  the  shroud  and  bier. 

Waiting,  longing,  looking,  for  that  deathless  shore, 
Where  the  ransom'd  weep  not,  ever,  evermore ; 
Where  the  scales  that  blind  us  fall  from  off  our  eyes, 
And  we  join  the  dear  ones  of  the  upper  skies. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  49 


Waiting,  asking,  seeking  for  the  narrow  way, 
Leading  to  the  gateway  of  eternal  day ; 
For  the  Saviour's  presence,  lighting  up  the  road, 
And  His  gracious  welcome  to  His  blest  abode. 

Thus  we're  plodding  onward,  lisping,  feebly  now, 
All  the  lofty  praises  to  our  Maker  due  ; 
While  we  often  whisper  in  His  loving  ear 
When  the  storm  is  drawing  nigh ;  "  Father,  I  fear." 


50  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Time  Linking  Eternity. 


A  WEARISOME  task  is  thine,  time, 
A  wearisome  task  and  lone ;  * 
Weaving  a  shroud  for  every  clime, 
While  thy  rusting  wheels  roll  on. 

A  turbulent  task  is  thine,  time, 
A  turbulent  task  and  long; 

Battling  all  up  from  early  prime, 
Battling  for  right,  or  for  wrong. 

A  sad,  weeping  task  is  thine,  time, 
A  sad,  weeping  task,  each  day  ; 

Bearing  the  deeds  of  death  and  crime, 
On  thy  ever-circling  way. 

Thy  task  will  end,  by  and  by,  time, 
And  thy  rusty  wheels  stand  still ; 

And  thy  burden  of  grief  and  crime, 
Will  cease  at  Jehovah's  will. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

But  all  that's  lovely  of  earth,  time, 

Will  link  to  Eternity ; 
And  all  the  holy  and  sublime 

Will  live  with  the  Deity. 

And  so,  though  thy  wheels  stand  still,  time, 
Thy  steeds  drop  out  of  the  race," 

The  reins  that  kept  thy  course  sublime, 
Are  held  by  the  Ancient  of  Days. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


1  Am  Standing  In  The  Shadow* 

I  AM  standing  in  the  shadow, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tomb ; 
Have  been  waiting  for  a  morrow 

That  shall  chase  away  its  gloom : 
But  the  shadow  stretches  onward, 
And  the  morrow  does  not  come ; 
Yet,  still  I  am  leaning  forward 
For  a  bird's  eye  glimpse  of  home.. 

I  am  standing  in  the  shadow, 

Where  I've  stood  for  many  years, 
List'ning  to  the  foaming  billow 

As  it  frets  against  earth's  piers ; 
Till  her  everlasting  buttments 

Seem  but  things  of  crumbling  rust, 
Dropping  one  by  one  through  moments, 

In  the  reservoir  of  dust. 

I  am  standing  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  wings  of  other  years, 
That  outstripp'd  our  earthly  sorrow 

With  its  sackcloth  roll'd  in  tears ; 
But  the  loving  wings  went  upward. 

And  the  shadow  dropt  below  ; 
And  I  am  looking  heavenward 

To  catch  a  radiant  glow. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  53 


I  am  standing  in  the  shadow, 

While  it  darkens  into  night, 
With  my  hope  fixed  on  the  morrow, 

Watching  for  the  dawning  light ; 
But  the  shadow  stretches  onward, 

And  the  morrow  does  not  come ; 
Blest  Saviour,  lead  me  heavenward, 

To  thy  unshadowed  home. 


54  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


A  Ship  Embedded  In  The  Ice  Of  The  Frozen 

Ocean. 

A  ship  embedded  thirteen  years  in  the  frozen  ocean,  whose  log- 
book says — "We  have  now  been  enclosed  in  the  ice  seventeen 
days.  The  fire  went  out  yesterday,  and  our  master  has  been  try- 
ing ever  since  to  kindle  it  again  without  success.  His  wife  died 
this  morning.  There  is  no  relief."  The  frozen  dead  confirmed 
the  sad  tale. 

A  SHIP  weighed  anchor,  and  sped  on  her  way, 
O'er  the  heaving  deep,  through  the  dashing  spray; 
With  her  flag  aloft,  and  her  broad  sails  spread, 
She  sailed  from  her  port,  o'er  the  ocean-bed. 

Partings  there  had  been,  for  love  was  on  board  ; 
The  last  kiss  been  giv'n — the  last  farewell  word ; 
When  a  trilling  tone  o'er  the  ocean  rolls, 
And  the  ship  moves  on  with  her  wealth  of  souls. 

The  earth  run  her  course  round  the  blazing  sun, 
And  pass'd  o'er  the  point  where  her  race  begun ; 
But  the  ship  was  unspok'n — unknown  her  fate, 
Though  love  kept  vigils,  both  early  and  late. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  55 

Years  roll'd  after  years,  and  a  voice,  at  last, 
Comes  up  from  the  far-gone,  echoless  past ; 
It  brings  a  sad  tone  from  the  tempest-tost, 
A  word  from  the  grave  of  the  lov'd  and  lost. 

The  stern  dark  moments  of  life's  bitter  need 
Are  partially  Yas'd  from  th'  page  we  read  : 
The  fear  that  mantled  the  cheek  with  dismay, 
When    the   thought    came    home,   "  Were   drifting 
away  /" 

"  We're  drifting  away."     Oh  !  who  can  portray 
What  life-scenes  rode  over  the  surf  that  day? 
What  hope  and  what  doubt,  what  faith  and  what  fear, 
Were  borne  from  that  ship,  on  the  wings  of  prayer  ? 

We  cannot  gather  each  item  of  woe 
From  the  pictur'd  scene  of  the  long-ago ; 
But  the  artist  now  may  glean  the  last  thread, 
To  twine  a  sad  wreath  for  our  Arctic  dead. 

"  We're  drifting  away  !"     What  a  stern,  dark  fate 
Press'd  on  with  that  ship  through  the  icy  gate ! 
What  weeping  thoughts  of  the  far-off  away, 
Clasp'd  hands  with  the  wither'd  hopes  of  to-day. 

And  the  ringing  laugh  of  the  long  ago 
Blended  its  tones  with  the  waitings  of  woe ; 
And  all  the  bright  spirits  of  home — "sweet  home? 
Stood  one  by  one,  round  that  dark,  Arctic  tomb. 


56  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


In  silence  the  frost-work  fastened  the  net 
Which  fettered  the  ship — may  fetter  her  yet — 
But  the  flitting  thought,  no  chains  can  enslave; 
It  is  here — 'tis  there — 'tis  beyond  the  grave. 

She  is  resting  at  last— that  noble  ship  : 

And  thought  seeks  for  thought  through  the  pallid 

HP, 

The  sails  are  all  set  in  silvery  sheen ; 
And  frostings  of  death  enamel  the  scene. 

Though  pearl-like,  the  chain  by  which  she  was  bound, 
Gorgeous  the  ice-mountains,  girding  her  round; 
Ten  thousand  the  rainbows,  lighting  the  scene ; 
What  were  they  to  her  in  her  ice-domain  ? 

What  were  they  to  him,  in  that  death-cold  hour, 
The  flint  and  the  steel,  with  warmth-giving  pow'r? 
Death  met  him — nerveless  and  stiff  grew  the  arm--' 
Embalm'd,  he  awaits  the  last  trump's  alarm. 

What  were  they  to  her,  that  delicate  One? 
Her  all  was  no  more — the  death-work  was  done — 
The  last  tie  was  sever'd — ceas'd  the  last  strife — 
She  smil'd  at  the  call,  that  bade  her  to  life. 

That  sweet  face  bore  the  impress  of  heaven, 
Her  trust  in  Jesus — her  sins  forgiven — 
The  angel  drew  nigh  with  his  wings  of  love, 
And  bore  the  sweet  bride  to  the  world  above. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  57 


Unclosed  the  log-book  lay — like  thing  of  life, 

It  told  a  tale  of  woe — of  stern,  dark  strife ; 

Upon  the  moldy  page,  the  frozen  hand 

Had  drawn  the  death-scene  for  the  friends  on  land. 

There  were  manly  forms  from  many  a  home, 
That  slept  the  death-sleep  in  that  Arctic  gloom ; 
And  many  a  prayer  had  gone  o'er  the  deep, 
For  the  loving  ones,  in  their  bunks  asleep. 

There  was  childhood,  too,  with  his  sweet,  young  face, 
Trustingly  turned  toward  the  throne  of  grace ; 
And  thus  death  painted,  for  lengthening  years, 
That  fountain  of  trust,  in  this  vale  of  tears. 


'S8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Reminiscence. 


TWAS  early  dawning  life,  and  blithely  gay; 

1    The  sky,  the  sunshine,  and  the  foam-capp'd  spray 
All  wove  but  one  unbroken  chain,  below, 
A  chain,  how  golden,  none  but  children  know  ; 
Woven  with  links  of  love,  so  pure  and  bright ; 
How  could  one  know  such  day  would  end  in  night? 
Child's  day  dreams  fly,  as  morning  dew  doth  fly, 
Before  the  alembic  of  the  burning  sky. 

'Twas  morn — I  woke  to  hear  a  wailing  cry  ; 
To  learn  that  one  was  dead,  that  all  must  die ; 
But  what  that  meant  I  could  not  comprehend, 
Nor  could  I  know  that  there  commenced  a  bend 
In  the  great  chain,  linking  eternity ; 
And  that  chain  mark'd  my  future  destiny ; — 
One  link  had  rudely  snapp'd,  I  knew  not  how ; 
One  thing  I  knew,  I  was  fatherless  below  ; 
And  that  strange  grief  came  to  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
I'm  fatherless,  and  must  be  evermore. 

But,  O,  the  bitterness !  ye,  who  can  tell, 
Fathom  the  woe-depths  of  that  mournful  spell, 
And  see  if  you  can  number  out  each  drop 
That  fills,  to  brimming,  this  dark,  weeping  cup — 
Weeks  numbered  out  the  months — months  wove  the 
years — 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  59 


Years  seemed  long  ages,  ebbing  out  in  tears; 
Tears  shed  by  daylight — in  the  sleepless  night ; 
Tears,  gushing  tears,  for  none  but  heaven's  sight ; 
Till  life  became  one  weary,  weeping  thought, 
That  fatherless  must  be  my  future  lot. 

There  was  no  plan,  a  weary,  weeping  child, 

I  lov'd  the  noisy  deep,  the  dark,  dank  wild ; 

The  stormiest  skies,  where  the  fork'd  lightnings  dart, 

Were  mine,  all  mine ;  I  hugg'd  them  to  my  heart ; 

For  in  them,  round  them,  through  them,  I  could  see 

The  Hand  that  link'd  me  to  eternity; 

And  learn'd  to  love  that  Hand,  that  guiding  Hand, 

That  spread  for  me  each  gloomy  nook  of  land. 

Again  the  shadow  fell — a  mate-link  snapp'd — 
An  orphan  mantle  round  my  life  was  wrapp'd  ; 
But  the  first  grief  had  been  so  sternly  sad, 
This  only  stamp'd  it  with  a  deeper  shade, 
Inwrought  with  boding  fears — a  cold  distrust, 
Weary  and  weird.     A  dark  unearthly  rust 
Seem'd  gathered  on  the  pages  of  my  soul, 
On  every  line  that  mark'd  the  childhood  scroll, 
Shutting  the  tracery  of  that  Ruling  Hand, 
From  the  blue  vault,  the  ocean,  and  the  land. 

Days  came  and  went — what  were  they,  now,  to  me? 
They  brought  no  more  the  trust  of  childhood  free ; 
Why  mine  were  call'd,  and  others,  far  astray, 
To  rust  and  ruin,  spared  another  day  ? 


60  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Were  questions  ever  rankling  in  my  brain, 
Unsolved — but  child-like,  trying  o'er  again, 
To  be  repeated  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  lenght'ning  shadows  slumbered  with  the  sun 

Night  after  night,  when  sleeping  earth  slept  on, 
With  her  soft,  ebon-curtains  folded  down  ; 
The  spirit  long'd  to  break  the  fettering  string, 
That  bound  to  earth,  and  mount  on  soaring  wing 
To  untrod  heights,  above  the  world's  glamour, 
Where  restive  foot  had  never  trod  before ; 
Where  moments  sped,  undoled  by  ticking  clock, 
Where  naught  but  solitude  could  bide  the  shock ; 
For  there,  that  listless,  weary  pain  might  be 
Silenc'd  to  sleep,  in  God's  immensity. 

I  lov'd  the  morning  light,  the  flow'ry  bloom; 
The  firs  and  pines,  begirt  with  solemn  gloom, 
But  best,  I  lik'd  to  hide  me  in  the  shade, 
Rather  than  frolic  in  the  open  glade  ; 
For  life  was  dark — a  shadow  of  the  grave 
Had  bound  me  in  its  fetters  like  a  slave; 
Vain  the  attempt,  the  shadowy  veil  to  rift, 
Which  hid  from  me  the  Saviour's  precious  gift. 

Year  spun  and  wove  her  thread,  then  pass'd  along, 
Trilling,  to  list'ning  ear,  this  pensive  song, 
This  prelude  to  the  things  that  yet  might  be, 
Ere  life  ebb'd  into  vast  eternity  : 

"  There  is  work  for  thee,  sister, 
And  no  time  to  loiter ; 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  61 


Thy  life -toil  is  now  just  begun ! 
There  is  no  time  for  sleeping, 
While  death  is  out  reaping, 

Go.  bind  thee  a  sheaf  before  noon." 

A  sheaf  ere  noon  ? — What  sheaf  have  I  to  bind  ? 
The  happy  world  has  left  me  far  behind ; 
But  in  God's  vineyard,  I  can  surely  glean, 
Glean,  where  the  wiser  of  the  flock  have  been. 

But  change,  again  came  in  this  changeful  sphere 
As  time  to  the  past,  gathered  home  the  year : 
I  read  my  last  book  to  the  tangled  dell, 
And  sang  my  last  song  with  the  rippling  rill. 

There  were  gentler  tones  in  the  voice  that  day ; 
To-morrow,  the  foot  would  be  far  away; 
The  ferns  smell'd  sweeter  than  ever  before, 
The  fir-nook  was  visited  o'er  and  o'er ; 
Each  nest  in  the  grove  had  a  farewell  look; 
Each  limpid  pool  and  each  whispering  brook; 
Then  patt'ring  of  feet  a  tender  farewell — 
Shall  I  ever  re-enter  that  childhood-dell  ? 

Over  land  and  wave,  where  beetling  crags  arise, 
Leaning  their  ragged  heads  against  the  skies, 
Nestled,  I  strove  to  hush  the  heaving  sigh, 
And  brush  the  tear-drop  from  the  weeping  eye ; 
Strove  to  forget  that  other  home  had  been, 
That  fallen  on  the  ear  had  other  strain ; 
That  other  roses  bloomed  so  far  away, 


62  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


That  other  birds  were  singing  on  the  spray, 
That  days  and  years  had  sped  in  silence  by, 
To  come  to  me  no  more,  below  the  sky. 

Forget  ?  as  soon  might  pulse  forget  to  beat, 
The  sun  forget  to  give  us  light  and  heat, 
As  I  forget  the  lovely  childhood  scene, 
And  the  dark  shadow  that  was  thrown  between. 
Its  love,  its  joy,  its  pure  and  sweet  delight, 
And  all  the  sorrows  of  bereavement's  night; 
They  live,  and  will  live,  while  power  to  think 
Goes  with  us  as  we  near  death's  sullen  brink. 

A  change  has  come — I've  trodden  distant  lands, 
Have  drank  from  ancient  lore,  lov'd  other  friends, 
Been  kindly  lov'd  and  idolized  by  them  ; 
And  then  been  call'd  to  yield  them,  gem  by  gem, 
To  Him  who  gave,  till  almost  all  are  gone, 
And  earth  seems  dark,  and  desolate,  and  lone ; 
Her  kind  tones  hush'd  within  the  silent  tomb, 
Her  shadows  panelled  on  our  stranger  home, 
To  give  a  glimpse  of  what  have  gone  before, 
And  now  await  us  on  the  heav'nly  shore. 

In  the  sad  wand'rings  of  my  pilgrim  days, 
I've  learned  strange  things  that  dazzle  and  amaze, 
I've  seen  the  hoarded  wealth  go  out  in  rust ; 
Fame's  temple  crumble  to  her  mother  dust, 
The  lofty  looks  of  man,  vain  man,  brought  low, 
His  pride — his  haughty  spirit — made  to  bow  ; 
Have  seen  the  iron  heel  of  time  tread  by, 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  63 


Earth's  brightest,  'neath  his  tread,  wither  and  die, 
And  ere  I  drap'd  them  with  their  whited  shrouds, 
I  softly  drew  aside  the  fretting  clouds 
That  gathered  roughly  o'er  life's  stretching  glebe, 
With,  here  and  there,  bright  dottings  on  the  web. 

And  this  far-stretching  glebe  became  my  glass, 
On  which  to  sketch  the  drifting  scenes  that  pass  ; 
On  which  to  sketch,  with  gold  and  silver  sheen, 
The  changeful  picture,  hid  'neath  life's  long  screen  ; 
So,  by  a  cot,  where  pensive  sorrow  wept, 
Whose  sole  protector  in  the  dark  grave  slept, 
I  paused  to  type  upon  a  spotless  sheet, 
The  scene  whose  transfer  soon  became  complete — 
And  there  he  stood — one  hand  upon  the  knob, 
That  man  of  grit  and  steel,  the  poor  to  rob. 

Smoothly  and  blandly — every  word  was  spoke, 
Bearing  a  sting  in  every  graded  stroke  ; 
And  by  the  post  with  hammer  and  a  nail, 
One  holds  the  words  : — "  This  property  for  sale," 
And  from  the  cot  they  went — from  that  dear  fold — 
God  help  you,  dear  ones — earth  is  very  cold- 
The  way  is  very  rough  to  weary  feet — 
God  grade  it  to  His  upper  Fold  and  Seat. 

The  cot  went  down,  and  marble  halls  went  up 
Upon  the  homestead  of  that  homeless  group  ; 
But  woe  to  him  !  who  crushed  that  widow'd  heart, 
To  him,  who  added  insult  to  death's  dart ; 


64  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


To  him  who  drove  the  fatherless  to  need, 
And  caused  those  hearts  in  bitterness  to  bleed ; 
In  vain  may  porters  guard  each  avenue  ; 
The  vengeful  Hand  is  nigh— man  reaps  his  due. 

I  traced  again — Death  met  the  robber's  soul- 

His  spirit  fled — Where  ?     Who  may  tell  the  goal  ? 

Leave  him  v/ith  God,  who  hears  the  v/idow's  prayer ; 

The  fatherless  are  His  peculiar  care; 

I  could  not  linger — this  was  sadly  drear  ! 

Leave  him  with  God,  but  be  not  thou  severe ; 

•'  Better  be  cheated,  than  a  cheater  be." 

I  sketch'd,  then  turn'd,  and  went  another  way. 

I've  trod  the  palace  of  the  rich  and  proud, 
Beheld  its  garniture — its  shining  gaud  ; 
Have  seen  that  palace  in  the  dust  laid  low, 
And  stormy  ruin  through  its  portals  flow; 
Have  seen  its  owner's  mind,  shut  up  in  rust, 
Its  beauty  gathered  home,  dust  to  rts  dust. 

I've  seen  the  rustic  plot  stretch  to  estate, 

The  cabin's  mud  thatch'd  walls  creep  out  of  date 

And  in  its  stead,  a  mansion,  tall  and  white, 

Nestle  its  head  upon  the  brow  of  night  ; 

With  staid  green  blinds  propp'd  firmly  on  a  hinge, 

And  rustling  curtains  tipp'd  with  golden  fringe, 

O'er-swept  with  gauzy  folds  from  far  away, 

That  softly  wavered  out  the  glare  of  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  65 


I've  seen  its  unkept  yard,  all  trodden  down, 
Pace  boldly  out  into  the  rolling  lawn, 
Dotted  with  here  and  there  a  jaunty  bower, 
Bedeck'd  with  climbing  vine  and  od'rous  flower. 

Thus  stood  that  mansion,  proud,  defiant,  grand, 

If  proud  befits  a  senseless,  tow'ring  stand  ; 

And  from  its  walls  went  forth  brave  sons  to  stem 

The  tide  of  fame,  or  delve  for  earth-hid  gems. 

For,  as  for  daughters,  there  were  none,  they  had  all  gone 

To  other  mansion,  than  that  tow'ring  one. 

Years  roll'd  upon  life's  pathway,  gold,  too,  rolled, 
Manor  to  manor  came,  and  fold  to  fold  ; 
All  things  that  dazzle  danced  within  his  hall, 
And  graceful  loveliness  pervaded  all. 
What  more  had  mortal  man  a  right  to  crave, 
This  side  the  portals  of  the  yawning  grave  ? 
But  who  that  ever  sought  his  thirst  to  stay 
From  earthly  font,  went  satisfied  away  ? 
For  garbled  wants,  companions  of  the  dust, 
Spring  into  life,  to  feed  a  cankering  rust, 
Engendered  in  the  heart  of  strange  unrest, 
Which  garners  up  its  hopes  in  earth's  dark  breast, 
Weaves  in,  all  days  alike — distinction — none, 
In  all  that  dazzling,  but  corroding,  zone, 
Which  runs  along  the  glebe  of  rolling  years, 
Weaving  them  in,  with  all  their  hopes  and  fears. 


66  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Strangely  and  darkly  were  his  deeds  all  planned 
Heedlessly  infringing  on  God's  command ; 
And  because  postponed  was  the  penalty, 
He  forgot  that  Heaven  could  hear  and  see  ; 
"  Tis  a  trifling  thing,"  said  his  stubborn  pride  ; 
But  his  sabbath  gleanings  were  soon  denied  ; 
His  manors  went  out,  and  fold  after  fold 
Pass'd  away  with  the  avalanche  of  gold; 
The  giddy  and  gay  brushed  carelessly  past, 
His  halls  were  empty,  on  Sunday,  at  last, 
And  rust  and  ruin,  and  sorrow  and  shame, 
Stepp'd  down  from  that  pinnacle  of  fame. 

Like  other's,  who  turn  from  Jehovah's  call, 
He  fell — but  how  terrible  was  that  fall ! 
As  stately,  mansion,  tall,  unique  and  grand, 
Founded  upon  the  ever' shifting  sand, 
Bides  not  the  pelting  fury  of  the  storm, 
But  crashing  falls,  so  he,  the  rich,  the  great, 
The  proud,  the  rock-ribb'd  soul,  from  his  estate 
Fell — with  no  prop  to  stay  his  downward  step, 
No  outstretch'd  hand  to  break  the  fatal  leap, 
He  fell — nor  he  alone,  fell  then  and  there- 
Example  dies  not  thus — but  with  dark  care, 
And  stern  regret,  and  woe,  and  weeping  thought, 
Fell  others,  too, — nor  cared  he,  who,  nor  what. 

Stern  ruin  girt  him  in  with  'morseful  coils, 
And  sought  he  e'er  so  much  to  break  the  toils, 
It  might  not  be ;  and  staggering  'neath  the  blow, 
The  loving  being,  who  had  shared  his  woe, 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  67 


Pass'd  to  her  rest.     As  some  frail,  fleeting  thing, 
Finding  the  blast  too  rough  for  its  light  wing, 
Foldeth  it  softly  down,  weary  for  rest, 
So  she  droop'd  her  slight  form  on  earth's  cold  breast. 

And  one  by  one  swept  off  earth's  gilded  dust, 
Till  one  by  one  had  failed  all  earthly  trust  ; 
E'en  hope,  that  seldom  leaves  our  mortal  tide, 
Stoop'd  from  her  lofty  throne  and  died,  yea,  died ; 
Nor  lived  she  more  this  side  the  silent  tomb, 
Nor  pointed  she,  beyond  its  darksome  gloom, 
To  rest  and  joy,  things  lightly  cast  aside 
For  hollow-hearted  friends,  and  pomp,  and  pride , 
For  memory,  standing  on  the  verge  of  years, 
Stepp'd  back,  and  gathered  up,  in  shivering  fears, 
And  one  wild  grasp,  the  deeds  of  life  throughout, 
And  in  that  trembling  grasp,  life  waded  out. 

And  this,  said  I,  musing,  is  poverty ! 

The  darkest  dread  of  all  eternity — 

Cut  off  from  earth — bereft  of  hope  and  heaven — 

Mercy,  insulted,  sins,  all  unforgiven— 

A  selfish,  sordid,  weeping,  trembling  soul ; 

Past  life  a  blotted,  bleared  and  crumpled  scroll ; 

And  this,  with  which  to  meet  the  King  of  kings, 

And  only  this,  of  all  God's  blessed  things. 

While  sadly  musing  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

Of  all  I'd  seen  and  heard — the  true  and  vain — 

I  said  again,  'Tis  poverty,  dark,  deep  ! 

O'er  which  creation  well  may  groan  and  weep. 


68  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


But  one  remained — a  timid,  shrinking  one — 

Born  for  a  rapid  life,  then  passing  on  ; 

Dowerless,  homeless,  friendless,  save  his  God, 

So  roughly  molded  was  his  earthly  road ; 

No  shadow  of  a  quivering,  fleeting  thing, 

That  poised  a  moment  on  its  fluttering  wing, 

Then  pass'd  along,  leaving  a  gladsome  ray 

To  cheer  him  in  his  solitary  way ; 

But  brooding  still,  gath'ring  a  darker  hue, 

As  hope  passed  onward,  through  the  false  and  true. 

From  day  to  day,  the  rapid  moments  pass'd, 
Each  one  with  darker  drapery  than  the  last ; 
Nor  was  there  one,  of  all,  in  prosperous  day, 
That  stooped  to  aid  him  on  his  lonely  way  ; 
So  sadly  false  is  earth,  to  her  high  trust, 
So  much  we  grovel  downward,  toward  the  dust  I 
Forgettmg  that  man's  dark  necessity 
Is  ours  to  smooth  to  great  eternity, 

Tis  well  God's  candle  hath  not  left  the  earth, 
But  shineth  ever,  in  our  darkest  dearth ; 
And  though  all  fail  us,  every  heart  grow  cold, 
He'll  not  desert  us,  if  we're  of  His  fold. 
God  did  provide  one,  on  his  lonely  road — 
Stranger  to  him,  but  known  and  loved  of  God — 
His  guide  and  guard  to  be,  till  call'd  above, 
To  the  kind  bosom  of  eternal  love. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  69 


Not  long  to  linger  here — God's  tender  care 
Was  kindly  smoothing  down  each  anxious  fear; 
And  gentle,  sympathizing  love,  from  day  to  day, 
Poured  loving  words,  and  smiles,  along  his  way ; 
But's  not  for  earth  to  bind  the  spirit's  wing, 
That  seeks  to  near  the  realms  of  Christ  her  King. 

'Fining  for  glory,  'neath  God's  tender  care  ! 
Refined  from  dross,  a  soul  surpassing  fair  ! 
Robed  in  Christ's  righteousness-washed  in  His  blood, 
He  came,  at  last,  and  waited  at  the  flood ; 
The  flood  of  death,  the  chilly,  darksome  tide, 
That  all  must  pass  to  reach  fair  Canaan's  side. 
No  murmur  pass'd  his  lips,  but  strangely  sad 
The  smile  that  sometimes  o'er  his  features  played, 
As  if  a  lightning  stroke  had  scathed  all  mirth, 
And  stamp'd  its  curse  on  all  the  joys  of  earth. 

As  when  a  traveler  waits  upon  the  shore, 
For  the  grim  ferryman  to  take  him  o'er, 
Yet  feels  a  perfect  calm,  although  he  knows 
Dark  rolls  the  tide,  and  cold  the  rough  wind  blows ; 
So  he  stood  face  to  face  with  the  Great  One, 
Waiting  his  pass,  from  cottage  to  a  crown  ; 
Waiting — not  fearing — though  the  silver  cord 
Were  loos'ning,  for  his  Pilot  was  the  Lord. 

"  Earth  has  been  dark,"  said  he,  "  so  very  dark! 

I'm  waiting,  Pilot !  waiting  to  embark ; 

I  see  a  glimmering  light  just  over  there — 

Pilot,  be  quick  !     It  is  my  guiding  Star, 

I'd  be  at  home  to-day  !  at  home  this  dawn  !  " 

And  then  the  cord  was  loosed,  the  orphan  gone. 


7o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


That  low  thatched  cottage,  unawares,  had  shed 
Its  meagre  blessings  on  an  angel-head  ; 
And  kindly  hearts,  that  strove  to  meet  his  need, 
Will  yet  receive  the  victor's  welcome  meed — 
Well  may  we  say,  gazing  on  scenes  like  this, 
I  wish  that  my  last  end  may  be  like  his ! 
Sadly  forsaken  on  earth's  chilly  breast — - 
Now  sweetly  at  home  in  the  mansions  of  rest. 

Oh  gather  once  more  at  the  couch  of  death ! 
Then  follow,  if,  can,  the  departing  breath 
In  its  tireless  flight,  wherever  it  be, 
Far  into  the  depths  of  Eternity  ! 
Then  say :  Is  all  earth  a  sufficient  thing 
To  stay  the  up-flight  of  the  spirit's  wing  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  7, 


I  am  Binding  Sheaves. 


I  AM  binding  sheaves  from  the  rolling  years, 
And  gathering  gems  from  the  falling  tears ; 
But  many  a  sheaf  has  slipp'd  from  the  bind, 
And  many  a  tear-gem,  I  cannot  find. 

Oh,  where  have  ye  hid  them,  ye  rolling  years  ? 
Those  sheaves,  I  gathered  with  brimming  tears  ? 
Where  have  ye  dropp'd,  from  your  sun-lighted  traih. 
Those  beautiful  sheaves  with  their  golden  grain  ? 

Give  back  unto  me,  Oh,  ye  rolling  years, 
The  sheaves  I  have  sought  with  such  burning  tears— 
When  the  book  of  life  shall  unfold  its  leaves, 
Shall  I  find  the  names  of  my  missing  sheaves  ? 

The  tear-gems  are  safe — I  shall  find  them  There, 
All  garnered  up,  by  The  Hearer  of  Prayer, 
Though  tears  shall  be  wiped  from  ev'ry  eye, 
The  gems  will  remain  as  stars  in  the  sky. 

But  oh,  for  those  sheaves,  I've  bound  in  my  prayers, 
Those  beautiful  sheaves  from  the  rolling  years ; 
The  sod  of  the  valley  lies  on  the  band, 
But  the  germs  are  hid  in  my  Father's  hand. 


72  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Where  Have  Ye  Buried  The  Roses  ? 

WHERE  have  ye  buried  the  roses? 
Oh,  summer,  and  winter,  and  breeze ; 
Oh,  where  have  ye  hidden  the  mosses 
That  slept  at  the  roots  of  the  trees  ? 

Oh,  why  have  ye  hush'd  all  the  bird-songs 
That  gush'd  from  a  myriad  throats  ? 

And  why  have  ye  bound  with  your  ice-thongs 
The  streams  in  their  crystalline  coats  ? 

Who  told  thee  to  wrap  up  the  flowers, 
Oh,  winter  !  in  dark,  icy  molds  ? 

Who  told  thee  to  frost-work  the  showers, 
And  weave  of  them  delicate  folds  ? 

Oh,  why  have  ye  blighted  the  daisies 
That  bloomed  by  the  palace  and  cot? 

And  why  have  ye  withered  the  grasses 
That  niched  themselves  down  in  our  lot? 

Ye  are  on  a  mission  of  ages, 

Oh  !  summer,  and  winter,  and  breeze ! 
YeVe  thwarted  the  wisdom  of  sages, 

And  meshwork'd  the  drops  of  the  seas. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  73 


Who  gave  you  the  seedling  of  ages 
To  nurture  and  culture  through  time  ? 

Who  graded  the  hydraulic  gauges, 
To  fit  every  fiber  and  clime  ? 

We  have  read  of  that  Great  Master  Builder, 
But  where  does  your  life-work  begin  ? 

Where  lies  the  invisible  fiber 

That  drinks  the  first  life  atom  in  ! 


74  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Great  Eclipse  Of  1869. 


STEADILY,  darkly  and  coldly,  it  came 
0   In  its  ebon  shroudings  and  ancient  fame, 
And  stealthily  crept,  like  a  thief  at  night, 
Over  the  path  of  the  sun's  dazzling  light. 

The  time,  man  computed,  the  moment  set 
When  th'  shadow  should  fall  on  the  dial  plate ; 
And  fast  as  the  moments  were  onward  swept, 
The  shadow  up  toward  the  bright  sun  crept. 

Then,  appeared  our  moon  in  her  ether  hall, 
Gathering  the  folds  of  her  mournful  pall ; 
As  she  beat  her  march  through  ecliptic  space, 
And  cast  her  dark  pall  o'er  the  sun's  bright  face, 

This  was  her  hour,  and  this  was  her  dower, 
Meted  to  her  by  Omnific  Power; 
A  moment  to  curtain  the  sun  from  sight, 
And  drape  the  earth  in  a  shadowy  night. 

Then  the  cold,  dark  shadow  wended  along 
To  the  rapid  strokes  of  Time's  silent  gong ; 
And  the  stars,  once  hid  by  the  sun's  bright  sheen 
Stepp'd  noiselessly  out  on  the  mournful  scene. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  75 


And  the  warbling  bird,  forgetting  to  sing, 
Swept  back  to  her  nest  and  folded  her  wing; 
And  wonderful  thoughts  came  over  the  soul 
As  we  traced  God's  might  on  the  flying  scroll. 

It  was  but  a  moment — the  trail  swept  on, 

And  the  stars  fell  back  of  the  sun's  bright  throne ; 

And  animal  life,  in  its  own  strange  way, 

Came  forth  from  short  night  to  shadowy  day. 

How  odd  it  must  seem  to  those  rolling  spheres 
To  look  for  this  once  in  the  circling  years, 
On  our  flying  earth  with  her  headlight  gone, 
While  the  dancing  moments  whirled  on  and  on. 

But,  what  was  it  to  us,  whose  home  was  here, 
On  the  rounded  point  of  a  turning  sphere? 
To  us,  who  stood  in  the  sun's  brilliant  glow, 
And  watched  while  the  image  moved  up  so  slow? 

The  sun  seemed  to  stand  so  fearfully  still, 
And  our  world  grew  silent  and  deathly  chill ; 
So  unlike  the  night  with  its  frosty  breath, 
It  fell  like  a  blight  from  the  wings  of  death. 


76  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"Ship  Ahoy!" 

Once  when  the  Author  was  out  on  the  Atlantic,  far  from  land, 
there  hove  in  sight  a  toy  brig,  that  had  been  torn  from  her  moor- 
ings by  the  wild  storm,  that  was  fearfully  raging  at  the  time.  In 
an  instant,  storm  and  danger  were  forgotten,  and  wild  shouts, 
mingled  with  the  terrible  roar  of  the  turbulent  ocean  billows, 
greeted  the  little  Brook  Stranger,  as  it  plunged  madly  on,  like  a 
thing  of  life, — and  homes  of  infancy  and  peaceful  childhood  came 
up  for  their  share  in  the  strange  drama. 

One  little  boy  on  land  must  have  been  a  true  mourner  that  day; 
for  such  toys  are  very  dear  to  little  ones. 

SHIP  ahoy!"  and  the  hardy  seamen  stood, 
With  a  sad,  wild  gaze  on  the  swelling  flood, 
As  a  tiny  brig,  from  her  moorings  cast, 
Sped  onward,  and  onward,  before  the  blast. 

"  Ship  ahoy !"  and  the  cheers  rang  wild  and  loud, 
As  tense  and  more  tense  grew  the  sail  and  shroud ; 
And  the  little  craft,  like  a  thing  of  life, 
Play'd  a  proud,  wild  part  in  that  stormy  strife. 

"  Ship  ahoy  !"  and  mounting  a  wave  on  high, 
It  hung  like  a  speck  on  the  murky  sky  : 
And  louder  the  shouts  rang  wild  and  clear. 

o 

For  that  little  toy  to  the  heart  was  dear. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  77 


A  moment  more — and  the  sad  word,  "  Lost  /" 
Wailed  mournfully  on — and  the  bright  dream  pass'd, 
And  an  unfill'd  void  in  every  heart, 
Told  the  truthful  tale,  We  meet  but  to  part. 

There  were  sadder  thoughts  and  a  sighing  tone, 
As  that  toy  from  the  foam-capp'd  wave  went  down  ; 
Not  a  word  was  spoke  as,  silent  and  slow, 
The  deck  was  paced  by  that  hardy  crew. 

Whence  came   the   sad   thought  that    whitened  the 

cheek  ? 

The  spell  that  forbade  every  lip  to  speak  ? 
Did  the  spirit  woo,  with  its  melting  power, 
The  boyhood's  young  life  to  that  solemn  hour  ? 

"  Ship  ahoy  ! "  had  died,  but  another  strain 
Surged  up  through  the  years  that  roll'd  between ; 
And  a  little  cot  on  a  sunny  shore, 
Seem'd  beck'ning  the  sailor  home  once  more. 

It  is  not  in  thee,  oh  poor,  sinful  man, 
To  fathom  the  depths  of  Jehovah's  plan ; 
'Tis  not  thine  to  say,  the  where,  how,  or  when, 
The  Spirit  may  choose  for  the  saving  of  men. 

A  little  child's  toy — a  forgotten  strain, 

From  days  that  have  pass'd  to  the  shoreless  main, 

May  fix  the  attention,  the  heart  unlock, 

And  lead  erring  sinners  to  Christ  the  Rock. 


78  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Last  Rose  Of  Autumn. 

I  SAT  beneath  a  clambering  vine 
As  the  Autumn  breeze  went  past ; 
And  sweets  from  many  a  nectar  shrine 
Were  borne  on  the  fitful  blast. 

'Twas  a  sweet  retreat,  and  one  rose  red 
Dipp'd  down  from  the  pendent  bough  ; 

As  one  by  one,  on  the  breeze,  had  sped 
Her  mates  with  the  blushing  brow. 

Alone!  thought  I,  like  some  orphan  one, 

Cut  loose — on  the  world  to  roam  ; 
With  wither'd  petals,  faded  and  torn, 

Thou,  alas !  art  passing  home. 

A  deep  wail  rose  as  the  twilight  stole 

O'er  the  breast  of  trembling  earth, 
From  nectar  shrines  of  its  flow'ry  goal, 

O'er  the  rev'lers  song  of  mirth. 

"  They  are  gone  !  gone !"  sang  that  dirge-like  wail, 

"^4//gone  from  my  flow'ry  dome; 
All  gone  !"  sighed  again  the  passing  gale, 

"And  I,  too,  am  passing  home." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  79 


Gone  !"  sang  the  lark  in  a  sweet,  wild  strain, 

As  it  pois'd  on  bending  spray ; 
"  One  rose,  alone,  decks  the  russet  plain — 

And  she  is  passing  away." 

"  I  kiss'd  that  rose,"  sigh'd  a  whisp'ring  gale, 
"  She  bow'd  neath  my  frosty  breath ; 

Her  petals  are  scattered  in  the  vale — 
Lo !  the  Queen  Rose  sleeps  in  death !" 

"  Gone  !"  sang  a  myriad  tones  in  one  ! 

I  search'd  for  the  dirging  choir — 
The  prairie  was  desolate  and  lone ; 

And  hush'd  was  the  mystic  lyre. 


8o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Glintings  Of  Glory, 

THE  glintings  of  glory  fall  everywhere, 
On  the  mountain-top  through  the  balmy  air, 
On  each  twinkling  star  in  its  onward  flight, 
Over  the  brow  of  the  sky-crested  night ; 
They  fall  on  each  world  as  it  whirls  through  space, 
Those  glintings  of  glory  from  God  's  pure  face. 

The  glintings  of  glory  flash  through  the  cloud 
As  they  rend  asunder  the  stormy  shroud ; 
In  the  ocean  storm  and  the  gushing  spring, 
In  the  silvery  down  on  the  birdlet's  wing; 
In  the  snow  and  rain,  in  the  sun  and  breeze: 
There  're  glintings  of  glory  in  all  of  these. 

Every  spear  of  grass,  each  weed  and  flower, 
That  covers  the  sod  and  decks  the  bower; 
The  mist-shapen  rock,  and  the  gilded  spire, 
The  dark  frozen  world,  the  volcanic  fire, 
Are  but  the  glintings  of  glory  and  love, 
Sifting  down  on  us  from  the  world  above. 

There  're  glintings  of  glory  in  every  ray, 

That  measures  the  night  and  weaves  out  the  day, 

In  the  giant  strides  of  time,  evermore, 

Bearing  us  on  to  the  other  shore : 

And  ever  the  same,  whether  cold  or  hot — 

Never  varying  one  tittle  or  jot. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  81 


There  Ye  glintings  of  glory  in  all  bright  things, 
That  come  from  the  hand  of  the  King  of  kings; 
In  the  heart  that  prompts,  and  the  will  that  dares, 
In  the  flickering  rays  of  hopes  and  fears  : 
The  glintings  of  glory  ripple  through  all, 
Even  dotting  with  light  the  funeral  pall. 

There  're  glintings  of  glory,  the  soul  can  see 
That  looks  through  this  life  to  eternity ; 
See  the  bright  ladder  let  down  from  above, 
Held  by  the  hand  of  Omnipotent  love  ; 
See  convoys  of  angels  guarding  the  way 
That  leads  from  this  world  to  eternal  day. 


82  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Scandinavian  Prince  And  His  Captive  Bride, 


ILOOK'D,  and  a  prince,  in  his  lofty  pride, 
Led  to  the  altar  a  beautiful  bride  ; 
But  no  tender  glance  in  that  mournful  eye 
E'er  spoke  of  a  love  that  can  never  die. 

The  faith  was  plighted,  but  over  the  throng 
This  thought  sadly  crept,  "  The  time  is  not  long 
For  an  angel-face — the  beauty  of  heav'n— 
Was  the  fearful  dow'r  to  the  young  bride  giv'n. 

A  fearful  dower — that  angelic  face, 
Just  turn'd  to  the  crowd  with  a  sadden'd  grace ; 
And  that  gentle  voice,  so  plaintively  low, 
Seem'd  more  of  heaven  than  of  things  below. 

Seem'd  more  of  heaven — it  had  learn'd  a  tone 
From*  the  bleeding  Saviour — God's  only  Son  ; 
Gather'd  that  grace  from  the  spirit's  power ; 
And  garner'd  it  up  !     'Twas  her  bridal  dowY. 

The  prince  knew  not  that  the  delicate  dove 
Belong'd  not  to  him,  but  to  heaven  above ; 
And  gazing  around  on  the  raptur'd  crowd 
There  swept  o'er  his  vision  a  sadden'd  cloud. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  83 


A  sadden'd  cloud,  for  too  well  had  he  read, 
In  each  anxious  gaze,  what  the  deep  thought  said, 
And  he  learn'd  full  well  he'd  netted  a  dove, 
Just  pluming  her  wings  for  the  world  above. 

He'd  netted  the  dove  on  her  bending  wing, 
And  was  she  not  his,  that  delicate  thing? 
All  her  loving  ones  were  captive  or  dead, 
What  power  could  over  his  threshold  tread  ? 

But  o'er  the  sweet  face  pass'd  a  paler  hue, 
And  calmer  and  lower  the  soft  tones  grew; 
And  when  day  gather'd  its  drapery  to  flee, 
She  gather'd  her  robe  for  eternity. 

And  on  pinions  of  light  she  went  above, 
To  bask  in  the  smiles  of  eternal  love ; 
She's  a  spirit  now,  and  will  never  more 
Lament  for  the  dead  on  our  earthly  shore. 


A  beautiful  one,  from  a  sunny  home, 
Where  the  warm  winds  blow,  and  the  flowers  bloom., 
A  captive  was  brought  to  that  northern  strand, 
Away  from  the  hills  of  her  vine-clad  land. 

But  she  could  not  live  where  the  frozen  zone 
Chang'd  every  heart  to  a  heart  of  stone ; 
And  she  pin'd  for  the  soft  and  balmy  breath 
That  linger'd  all  day  on  the  flow'ty  heath. 


84  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Pining,  she  bore  to  the  altar  that  day 

Too  deep  a  glow  for  a  world  of  decay ; 

But  her  friends  were  up  there — she  knew  it  all — 

Why  linger,  then,  in  the  conqueror's  hall  ? 

A  moment  more  and  the  call  was  given, 

And  she  changed  our  earth  for  the  joys  of  heaven ; 

But  she  left  the  print  of  her  spirit's  wing 

In  the  marble  halls  of  a  conquering  king. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  85 


I  did  not  Hear  the  Moment  Speed. 

I  DID  not  hear  the  moment  speed, 
I  did  not  see  the  wrong'd  heart  bleed ; 
Yet,  one  led  out  the  dying  day, 
The  other  sought  a  place,  to  pray.' 

By  this,  I  knew,  the  moment  sped, 
By  this,  I  knew,  the  wrong'd  heart  bled ; 
And  each  in  silence  wing'd  its  flight, 
Beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  sight 

The  speeding  moment.     Who  may  say 
What  part  of  life  it  bore  away  ? 
But  when  the  wrong'd  heart  pleads  for  grace, 
We  know  that  heaven  is  moved  to  bless. 

I  did  not  hear  time's  silent  gong, 
Tolling  the  death  knell  of  the  throng ; 
I  did  not  hear  death's  spirit-tread, 
Nor  see  him  number  out  the  dead : 

Yet,  all  around  were  weeping  homes, 
And  every  day  was  filling  tombs ; 
By  this,  I  knew,  death  was  abroad, 
And  numbering  out  his  host  for  God. 


86  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


I  did  not  tread  the  world  of  bliss, 
Nor  see  the  friends  that  pass'd  from  this ; 
But  faith  swept  up  the  shining  road, 
And  saw  the  home  of  Christ  our  God. 

By  this  I  know  the  world  of  bliss, 
Where  loving  ones  have  pass'd  from  this; 
And  step  by  step,  and  day  by  day, 
It  smooths  and  lights  my  weary  way, 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  87 


Strange  Tones  Sweep  O'er  The  Chords. 

OTRANGE  tones  sweep  o'er  the  Chords  of  Time, 
\J       Strange  fingers  touch  its  keys; 
To-day  it  breathes  a  gladsome  chime, 
To-morrow,  dirging  lays. 

To-day  its  theme  is  life  and  love; 

To-night,  the  silent  tomb ; 
To-day  it  trills  of  joys  above, 

To-night  it  chants  of  gloom. 

•To-day  it  melts  to  tender  tones, 

Warbling  a  plaintive  air ; 
To-morrow — ends  in  wailing  groans, 

And  accents  of  despair. 


88  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


i 


Musings  At  Midnight. 

STOOD  'neath  the  midnight  arching 
Of  our  glorious  western  sky, 

While  its  myriad  hosts  went  marching, 
In  their  glittering  silence  by. 

And  I  thought  of  sleeping  millions, 
Once  standing  as  I  then  stood ; 

Of  monarchs  and  their  minions, 
Of  the  wicked  and  .the  good. 

And  I  thought,  How  many  weepers 
Have  wept  to  weep  no  more; 

And  how  many  silent  sleepers 
Will  meet  on  heaven's  shore. 

And  I  thought,  How  grand  the  morrow 
That  will  rouse  our  sleeping  clay, 

When  the  penitent  child  of  sorrow 
Will  arise  to  endless  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  89 


I  thought  of  the  dazzling  glory, 
O'er-arching  the  realms  above ; 

Of  the  pure  angelic  beauty, 
Encircling  the  friends  we  love. 

Then  a  dreamy  haze  pass'd  o'er  me, 
And  a  by-gone  day  swept  up, 

Waving  back  the  present  scenery, 
From  time's  great,  brimming  cup. 

And  another  world  bent  o'er  me, 
With  its  pure,  transparent  light ; 

And  its  floating  folds  of  glory, 
Drifting  downward  on  the  night. 

And  the  beauty  of  creation 
Swept  around  me  on  the  wing ; 

And  I  knew  my  dream,  a  vision 
Of  the  home  of  Christ,  my  King. 

There  were  gather'd  round  me,  dear  ones, 

And  I  look'd  in  loving  eyes, 
And  forgot  that  any  sad  tones 

Had  been  wailed  below  the  skies. 

And  a  burst  of  Halleluias 

Came  from  the  ransomed  throng; 

And  harpers  bore  the  symphonies 
To  every  lisping  tongue. 


90  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


But  out-shining  all  this  glory, 

Encircled  in  'majesty, 
Stood  Christ,  who  died  on  Calvary, 

The  Christ,  who  died  for  me. 

Then  all  this  glorious  vision 
Faded,  scene  by  scene,  away, 

And  this  darksome,  lower  region 
Was  mine  another  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  91 


Memoria. 


THERE  was  burning  beauty  in  the  golden  West, 
1    And  the  bright  sun  was  sinking  to  his  rest : 
When  Anna  flung  aside  her  hat  and  book, 
Then  paus'd  and  cast  a  wistful,  longing  look, 
To  see  the  silver  line  on  which  Sol  hung 
His  golden  locks,  now  o'er  the  west  wall  flung. 

Gazing,   she   stretch'd   her    hands — "  I'll    pull    them 

down !" 

She  said,  and  o'er  her  brow  gather'd  a  frown  ; 
"  I'll  pull  them  down  !  for  they  have  garner'd  up 
My  life's  best  days  within  their  golden  cup — 
I  know  it  well,  those  fretted  locks  are  ting'd 
With  the  lost  threads  that  all  my  life-hopes  fring'd. 

"  I  did  not  spin  those  threads — but  they  were  mine — 
In  all  my  day-dreams,  to  inlock,  entwine, 
But  they  were  stolen,  one  by  one,  away, 
Till  none  are  left  to  light  my  orphan  way ; 
Come  back  to  me,  ye  golden  threads,  once  more ! 
For  I'm  aweary  of  this  darkened  shore." 


92  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

'Twas  all  in  vain — those  golden  dreams  had  fled — 
Youth's  tender  flow'rs,  all  crush'd — her  bright  hopes 

dead- 
She  might  not  gather  back  those  golden  rays 
That  wove  such  beauty  round  her  early  days  ; 
They'd  been  too  bright  for  such  a  world  as  this, 
The  soul's  dark  passage  to  a  world  of  bliss. 

The  outstretch'd  hands  fell  down,  and  burning  tears 
Unlock'd  the  fountain  of  those  folded  years  ; 
The  strange,  unearthly  now  was  swept  away 
By  gushing  tears,  no  finite  power  could  stay — 
'Tis  well  the  pent  heart  may  its  burdens  lave 
With  tears,  that  fit  them  for  an  early  grave. 

For,  one  by  one,  her  memory  had  spread 
Life's  map  before  her,  of  her  early  dead  ; 
The  orphan's  dow'r  upon  the  broad  world  cast ; 
And  time's  stern  footfall  sweeping  o'er  the  past ; 
Till  those  bright  sunset  rays  brought,  one  by  one, 
Each  blissful  feature  of  the  days  agone. 

Pause,  ye,  who  may,  and  learn  the  missive  well  ! 
Draw  back  the  curtain — lift  the  tinsel'd  veil, 
It  is  a  tale  ye're  not  too  old  to  learn  : 
E'en  tho'  all  brilliant  things  are  in  life's  urn, 
They  will  not  stay  : — the  fleeting  things  of  time 
Are  not  for  those  who  seek  a  heavenly  clime. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  93 

Too  well  we've  learn 'd  this  lesson  long  ago, 
The  fleetness  of  all  bright  things  here  below ; 
For  while  we  hold  then,  with  a  treble  cord, 
They're  gone  to  be  forever  with  the  Lord ; 
And  yet  we  seek  to  win  them  back  again 
In  the  dark  anguish  of  bereavement's  pain. 

Oh !  memory  were  thy  blotted  pages  seaPd, 

Could  naught  that's  past  roll  backward  on  life's  field, 

How  much  of  bliss,  e'en  in  our  bitter  grief, 

Would  sleep,  oblivious  of  thy  sad  relief: 

Stay  with  us,  memory,  till  life  is  o'er ! 

God  grade  thy  mission  to  the  other  shore. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


The  Great  Fire  In  Chicago,  October,  1871. 

A  FINGER  of  fire  swept  the  chords 
That  lay  on  the  rocking  air, 
And  flame  hiss'd  to  flame  its  fiery  words, 
And  mounted  the  smoldering  car. 

Up  from  the  earth  on  its  flaming  wing 

It  carried  the  toils  of  years  ; 
Up  with  its  purified  offering 

It  climbed  the  ethereal  stairs. 

It  licked  the  dust  with  its  fiery  tongues, 
And  played  with  the  flaming  steel ; 

Gather'd  the  winds  in  its  heated  thongs,, 
To  propel  its  scorching  wheel. 

The  city,  swept  by  the  fire's  wrath, 
Writhing  a  moment,  went  down; 

Lighting  torches  along  the  swath, 
The  avenging  hand  had  mown. 

Under  this  blazing  canopy 

Swept  onward  the  living  crowd  ; 
As  panting  deer  from  hunters  flee, 

They  fled  from  the  flaming  shroud. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.       -  95 


Wrapping  one  fear  within  each  soul 

The  affrighted  mass  swept  on ; 
While  the  wind  and  fire  wove  the  scroll,  ' 

And  the  homes  of  men  burned  down. 

Swift  the  detour,  in  awful  speed 
The  spoiler  had  grasped  his  prey  ; 

Prayers  might  ascend  and  strong  hearts  bleed. 
But  the  fire  had  won  the  day. 

Look  back,  oh  City  of  the  Lake, 

On  the  seed  for  harvest  sown  ; 
Measure  anew — mark  each  mistake, 

Improve  from  the  sad  agone. 

This  lesson  each  and  all  must  learn 

We  are  children  of  one  God ; 
All  traveling  to  one  common  bourne, 

All  bending  to  the  sod. 

Our  life  is  but  a  pent  up  day, 

That  is  fretting  to  be  gone; 
Death  turns  the  key,  the  dying  ray 

Is  merged  in  heaven's  dawn. 


9<5  .     THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Fire-Flies. 


'TWAS  evening  tide  and  over  the  lea, 
I    Had  died  the  hum  of  the  busy  bee; 
The  lights  were  out  in  the  dining-hall, 
And  fire-flies  danc'd  on  the  garden-wall; 
And  bounding  feet,  elastic  and  free, 
Kept  time  with  the  tones  of  childhood's  glee. 

It  was  long  ago,  and  strange,  sad  lays 
Float  up  through  the  mist  of  by-gone  days ; 
And  far  away  from  that  loving  band, 
My  lot  is  cast  in  the  stranger's  land  ; 
Yet,  from  the  depths  of  that  evening  mild, 
The  echoes  are  floating,  strange  and  wild. 

And  those  echoes  do,  somehow,  grow  stranger  still, 
As  bright  forms  are  missing  from  valley  and  hill, 
And  deepens  the  shadow  that  lingers  between 
That  bright   night  of  childhood,  and  life's  present 

scene ; 

And  closer,  still  closer,  we  cling  to  the  past, 
As  darker  the  cloud  grows/and  sterner  the  blast. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


97 


Those  fire-flies  are  missing,  those   bright  lights   of 

home, 

And  none  can  be  like  them,  though  many  may  come ; 
Not  any  so  pretty,  not  any  so  bright, 
As  those  that  we  danc'd  with  on  childhood's  bright 

night. 

And  friends  that  were  with  us,  though  shaded  in  death, 
Still  linger  among  us  on  mem'ry's  fond  breath. 

But  none  can  seem  like  them,  so  tender  and  true, 
As  mem'ry  presents  them,  flung  back  to  my  view, 
Though  loved  ones  have  deck'd  the  long  vista  of  years 
Among  them,  all  lovely,  that  home-link  appears ; 
Nor  can  it  depart  from  the  tablet  of  love, 
Till  garner'd  are  all  in  the  mansion  above. 


98  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Incident  Off  The  Coast  Of  Scotland. 


"  The  dangerous  Islet  called  Bell  Rock,  on  the  coast  of  Fife, 
east  of  Scotland,  was  formerly  marked  only  by  a  bell,  which  was 
so  placed  as  to  be  swung  by  the  motion  of  the  waves,  when  the 
tide  rose  above  the  rock."  Here  ships  often  foundered. 

O'ER  the  foaming  deep  with  its  surging  swell, 
Was  wafted  the  sound  of  a  tolling  bell ; 
So  dismally  slow,  roll'd  that  sweeping  moan, 
Wave  spoke  it  to  wave,  in  an  undertone. 

Toll  !  toll !  toll !  and  the  vessel  reel'd  and  roll'd, 
Toll !  toll !  toll !  and  the  dirging  grew  more  bold  ; 
Yet  many  a  league  from  the  far-off  shore, 
Rode  that  noble  ship,  with  the  souls  she  bore. 

Toll !  toll !  toll !  and  there  came  an  icy  chill, 
Toll  !  toll !  toll !  and  the  trembling  form  stood  still; 
Yet  none  might  see,  though  he  heard  full  well, 
How  near  he  had  swept  to  the  tolling  bell. 

Toll !  toll !  toll !  "  Oh,  thou  sadly  moaning  bell, 
We  know  thy  tone — we've  learn'd  its  meaning  well ; 
We  know  thy  tone — have  listened  to  its  dirge, 
Which  tells  of  breakers  underneath  the  surge." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  99 


Toll !  toll !  toll !  and  nearer  the  wild  waves  come, 
Till  every  eye  beholds  the  feath'ry  foam  ; 
Faith  lifts  one  fervent  prayer.     Then,  "  All  is  lost  /  " 
Went  surging  on,  and  deep  responded  "  Lost  !  " 

"  Not  lost !  "  is  faintly  borne  by  changing  breeze, 
"  Saved  by  Almighty  Pow'r !  Give  God  the  praise." 
And,  toll !  toll !  toll !  comes  fainter  through  the  air  ; 
Till  distance  shuts  it  from  the  list'ner's  ear. 

There,  was  the  line — the  hidden  point  unseen, 
Which  pass'd — that  ship  could  make  no  port  again  ; 
And  such  is  life  !  that  point  once  pass'd  by  man, 
That  hidden  line,  beyond,  there's  no  return. 


ioo  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Toward  The  Setting  Sun, 


WEARY  pilgrim,  passing  on, 
Toward  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
Where  the  streams  with  golden  ore, 
Wash  the  great  Pacific's  shore ; 
Hast  thou  counted  all  the  cost? 
All  that's  gained,  and  all  that's  lost? 

From  the  homesteads  of  thy  Sires, 
From  their  altars  and  their  fires, 
From  their  marble  spire  and  stone. 
Pilgrim,  thou  art  passing  on — 
Hasting  from  the  house  of  prayer  I 
Hasting,  brother,  hasting,  Where  ? 

Pilgrim  brother,  toil  and  care 
Meet  earth's  children  everywhere  ; 
Tears  of  anguish,  fear  and  pain 
Form  her  legacy  to  man  ; 
Think  thee,  brother,  ere  too  late, 
What  may  be  thy  after  fate. 

Friendless,  desolate  and  lone, 
Of  thy  kindred,  near  thee,  none, 
Stranger  hands  may  smooth  thy  bed> 
Strangers,  lay  thee  with  the  dead ; 
Pause,  re-choose  thy  lot  and  place, 
'Midst  the  scenes  of  gospel  grace. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET  101 


Pilgrim,  life  is  passing  by, 
Oh,  how  soon  we  all  must  die  ! 
Grasp  we  may  the  mines  of  gold  ; 
Death  will  wrench  them  from  our  hold ! 
Choose  thy  portion  in  the  skies, 
Death  can  never  seize  that  prize, 


102  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Ebbing  From  Time. 

EBBING  from  time,  as  ebbs  the  tide, 
Out  to  the  main — how  swift  the  glide ! 
Ebbing  so  swift,  but  few  that  know 
How  swiftly  they  ebb  from  all  below. 

Ebbing  so  swift — oh,  Lord,  our  might, 
Teach  us  how  swift — how  near  the  night ; 
Teach  us  to  note  the  passing  day  ; 
To  heed  the  warning,  Passing  Away. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  103 


She  Measured  Off  Death's  Silent  Tread, 


PWAS  buoyant,  laughing,  lovely  June, 
1    The  earth,  the  stars,  the  sun  and  moon 
Strode  heedless  on  o'er  bud  and  bloom, 
While  a  young  girl  sat  in  her  home, 
Gathering  and  tying  broken  threads, 
Raveled  from  many  earth-torn  shreds. 

A  scrap  from  childhood's  mottled  web 
Brushed  strangely  up  across  life's  glebe, 
Fell  at  her  feet,  a  wild,  weird  shred, 
From  the  cold  claspings  of  the  dead ; 
Bringing  sad  scenes  of  years  agone 
Back  to  that  heart,  so  sadly  lone. 

In  sudden  gloom  the  work  stood  still, 
Awfully  silent  roll'd  time's  mill ; 
And  inch  by  inch,  and  thread  by  thread, 
She  measured  off  death's  silent  tread ; 
Measured  it  off  with  trembling  fear, 
Bathing  each  way-mark  with  a  tear. 


104  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


In  weeping  thought  she  backward  sped, 

So  still,  so  silent,  like  the  dead, 

Sped  backward  on  the  mocking  tide, 

Where  hopes  had  bloomed  and  hopes  had  died  ; 

With  longing,  lingering,  wistful  gleam, 

She  sought  the  gone — 'twas  all  a  dream. 

Then  anguish  sprang  to  that  young  face, 
Blotting  with  tears  each  earthly  grace, 
The  smile  was  gone,  and  in  its  stead 
Reveled  the  shadows  of  the  dead ; 
Only  the  shadows,  for  the  life 
Was  treasured  from  all  mortal  strife. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  105 


Who  Is  My  Neighbor? 

HE  liveth  near  thy  door,  in  marble  halls, 
The  wealth  of  nations  tapestries  his  walls; 
Grand  arches  breathe  the  fragrance  of  each  clime, 
And  sculptur'd  heirlooms  mock  the  tread  of  time, 
He — is  thy  neighbor. 

He.  hath  his  bitter  needs  that  none  can  see, 
The  thick  walls  shut  him  in  from  even  thee ; 
So  statue-like  is.  he,  his  heart  so  cold, 
But  still  a  mortal  of  our  Father's  fold, 
He — is  thy  neighbor. 

She  dwelleth  by  thee,  desolate  and  lone, 
Within  her  cottage  comes  no  answ'ring  tone  ; 
Her  loved  have  left  her  for  the  other  shore, 
Nor  child,  nor  husband  hath  she  any  more, 
She — is  thy  neighbor. 

That  thin-clad  beggar,  asking  for  a  crust, 
That  ragged  boy  begrimm'd  with  very  dust; 
That  weeping  mourner,  bending  o'er  the  tomb ; 
That  lonely  stranger,  wand'ring  far  from  home  : 
Each — is  thy  neighbor. 


io6  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Close  by  thee — far  away,  on  land,  on  sea, 
In  marble  hall,  or  cot,  where'er  it  be; 
Or  thirsty,  waits  thee,  at  the  common  well, 
Pilgrim  all  lonely,  in  this  tearful  vale : 
Each — is  thy  neighbor. 

Go,  then,  and  choose  thy  way,  where  duty  calk, 
On  the  broad  ocean,  in  the  festive  halls, 
Within  the  darken'd  cell,  or  at  thy  gate, 
Perchance  deformed,  loathsome  and  desolate  : 
Behold — thy  neighbor. 

O'er  prairie  vast,  or  mountain-grade  for  feet, 
Where  earth's  far-sweeping  children  congregate; 
In  every  circumstance  of  weal  or  woe : 
The  aged,  the  young,  the  lofty  or  the  low — 
There — is  thy  neighbor. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  107 


The  Great  Catastrophe  At  Dixon,  Illinois. 

By  which  forty-five  persons  were  drowned  while  assembled  O 
the  bridge  to  witnc- :  a  baptism. 

A  BRIGHTER  day  may  never  rise 
Than  rose  o'er  Dixon's  lovely  vale, 
Nor  gayer  flowers  greet  the  eyes, 
Nor  sweeter  sounds  the  ear  regale, 

'Twas  holy  time — a  Sabbath  day 

Had  mantled  out  the  night's  dark  pall, 

And  insects  murmured  on  the  way, 
"J  ehovah  God,  is  Lord  of  all !" 

The  bells  rang  out  upon  the  air, 

And  youth  and  age,  and  life  and  love 

Assembled  in  the  courts  of  prayer, 
And  kneeled  before  the  God  above. 

Who  knows  what  solemn  thoughts  were  there, 
What  tender  love,  what  strange  unrest 

Commingled  in  each  house  of  prayer, 
And  touched  a  chord  in  every  breast 


io8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Did  not  sweet  songs  fall  on  the  ear? 

Such  songs  as  angels  love  to  sing  ? 
Did  not  the  Spirit  hover  near 

With  healing  balm  upon  his  wing  ? 

Bowed  heads  were  there,  and  falling  tears, 
And  hearts  that  breathed  of  bitter  wrongs, 

And  joys  and  griefs,  and  hopes  and  fears, 

Ran  strangely  through  those  praying  throngs. 

A  changing  scene — and  crowds  on  crowds 

Merge  from  those  courts  and  near  the  waves: 

Who  said  that  death  was  stitching  shrouds? 
That  unseen  hands  were  digging  graves? 

Surely  'twas  whispered  in  some  ear, 
'Twas  softly  folded  o'er  some  heart, 

'Twas  imaged  in  some  falling  tear ; 
It  planted  in  some  breast  a  dart. 

Else  why  that  restless  tide  of  thought  ? 

That  stifled  sob,  so  full  of  grief? 
That  sense  of  fear?  though  none  knew  what 

Lay  hid  within  a  span  so  brief. 

The  flying  hours  of  time  had  gone, 

"  Too  swift !"  said  one,  "  too  swift  for  me  !" 

Unseen  they  came,  unseen  passed  on, 
With  all  her  home-links  wrenched  away. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  100 


A  mystic  spell,  a  wailing  dirge, 
Heard  by  the  spirit's  ear  alone, 

Rolled  o'er  the  soul  a  weeping  surge, 
To  pass  forever  on  and  on. 

The  prattling  child  had  heard  that  strain, 
And  turning  from  his  childish  bliss, 

Called,  pressing  to  the  gate  again, 

"  Dear  mamma,  give  me  one  more  kiss !" 

And  tender  kisses,  tender  words, 
Unfelt  before,  unheard  till  then, 

Were  wafted  from  the  heart's  deep  chords, 
And  mingled  with  that  dirging  strain. 

For  oft  the  soul's  foreboding  fear 
Does  warn  it  of  approaching  ill, 

And  though  all  bright  things  linger  near, 
The  heart  is  desolate  and  chill. 

The  golden  sun  may  shine  in  vain 
Its  very  light  is  weird  and  wild, 

And  bygone  shadows  come  again 
Between  mature  age  and  the  child. 

Oh,  does  some  angel,  hovering  nigh, 
Breathe  softly  to  the  heart's  sad  ear, 

Or  some  sweet  spirit  from  on  high, 
Drop  on  the  soul  a  pitying  tear  ? 


no  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  day — the  hour  so  strangely  bright, 

The  world  so  full  of  joyousness, 
The  air  just  bursting  from  the  night 

Joined  nature's  orchestra  of  bliss. 

Yet  sadness  quavered  in  each  trill, 
And  trembled  on  each  melting  chord, 

And  smiles  concealed  a  deathly  chill 
Too  mystical  to  clothe  with  words. 

A  hurried  step — none  knew  the  why, 

A  half-formed  thought — the  heart's  sad  wail, 

Was  it  a  dirge-note  wafted  by 

That  said,  "  There's  danger  in  the  vale  ?" 

"  A  feverish  thought,  it  cannot  be ! 

There  Ye  sacred  rites  performed  to-day — 
An  offering  to  the  Deity — 

And  shall  I  coldly  stay  away?" 

And  so  they  pressed  along  the  way 
That  led  them  to  the  flowing  stream ; 

Who  saw  within  that  silvery  spray 

Aught  but  the  sunlight's  golden  gleam  / 

And  other  forms  are  gathYing  there, 
And  riders  curb  their  restive  steeds; 

The  matron  and  the  maiden  fair 

Are  following  where  the  great  crowd  leads. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  in 


And  children,  smiling,  loving  dears, 
Had  caught  the  spirit  cf  the  dream ; 

Devoid  of  cares,  devoid  of  fears, 

They,  too,  are  wending  toward  th'  stream. 

They  near  the  bridge,  those  patt'ring  feet, 
Why  not  ?     The  world  is  very  fair  ! 

There  playmates,  brothers,  sisters  meet, 
And  joyous  music  fills  the  air. 

And  now,  between  the  flowing  tide 

And  the  broad  heav'n  outspread  above, 

Are  crowded,  childhood,  bridegroom,  bride, 
Linked  by  the  tend'rest  cords  of  love. 

A  warning  word  !  'Tis  heard  by  few, 
But  still  the  warning  word  was  given, 

Why  was  it  smothered  down  so-  low, 
Till  ruin  came  and  hearts  were  riven  ? 

Why  was  it,  that  the  reeling  pier 
Was  left  to  tell  its  tale  of  death  ? 

While  loving  dear  ones  from  afar, 
Behold  the  scene  with  bated  breath. 

Oh,  there  are  times  when  hearts  stand  still, 
Or  pulsate  back  upon  the  brain  ; 

When  all  life's  chordings,  numb  with  chill, 
Give  back  no  utt'rance  to  their  pain. 


ii2  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


And  there  are  tears  we  cannot  shed  ; 

They're  scorched  and  dried  within  the  soul 
We  stand  astonished,  though  our  dead 

Lay  sheeted  'neath  a  wat'ry  pall. 

Tis  done  !  the  dreadful  crash  has  come  ! 

And  shrieks  have  made  the  heavens  ring ; 
But  oh  !  to  waiting  hearts  at  home, 

Who  shall  the  weeping  tidings  bring  ? 

The  mother's  voice  is  heard  no  more, 

Lulling  her  little  one  to  rest  ; 
And  the  light  footfall  on  the  floor, 

Is  silent  now,  the  watch  has  ceased. 

And  smiling  childhood's  gleeful  tone 
Is  hushed,  the  hands  are  stiff  and  cold : 

The  weeping  widow  walks  alone, 
Her  twain  are  in  another  fold. 

The  sweet,  young  maiden,  wondrous  fair ! 

The  waves  have  kissed  her  marble  brow ; 
And  gently  smoothed  her  silken  hair, 

And  lured  her  from  our  courts  below. 

Such  sweet,  young  flowers  for  Paradise 
We  well  may  yield !  but  oh,  the  heart 

Pants  wildly  for  the  cherished  prize 
That  sought  our  homes  but  to  depart. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  113 


But  from  those  forms,  those  lovely  forms, 
The  uncaged  soul  has  sought  the  sky, 

No  more  to  battle  with  earth-storms, 
No  more  to  weep,  no  more  to  die. 

Earth  has  no  power  to  give  them  back, 
Nor  the  cold  grave  to  yield  the  dead ; 

Time,  in  his  ever  lengthening  track, 
Gives  back  no  vestige  of  life's  thread. 

And  so  they  sleep — those  lovely  forms — 
Lifeless  and  cold — they  calmly  sleep — 

Nor  heed  they,  though  the  pelting  storms 
Forever  o'er  their  low  beds  sweep. 

Tis  ours  to  weep — 'tis  ours  to  sigh, 
Not  so  with  them,  their  race  is  run ; 

'Twas  theirs  to  live — 'twas  theirs  to  die, 
Tis  ours  to  say — "  Thy  will  be  done." 


ii4  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


To-Day  I  Am  A  Weeper  Beneath  The  Sky 

WHEN  the  bright  world  filled  every  cup  abrim 
With  radiant  joys  that  no  thought  could  dim  ; 
When  she  held  bright  dreams  to  the  youthful  eye, 
And  brush'd  every  cloud  from  the  azure  sky ; 
A  young  girl  wondered  how  a  tear  could  fall, 
And  bright  hues  grade  down  to  a  funeral  pall. 

She  stood  on  the  beach  by  a  restless  tide, 

And  watch'd  the  white  sails  o'er  its  bosom  glide, 

Till  a  dreamy  spell  o'er  her  being  crept, 

And  she  knew  not  why,  but  the  young  girl  wept ; 

For  sorrow  had  not  on  that  bright  life  fell, 

To  span  the  dark  depths  of  that  mournful  spell. 

Still  all  the  bright  joys  of  that  brimming  cup 
Were  suddenly  chang'd  to  her,  drop  by  drop ; 
And  a  strange,  sad  feeling  of  vague  unrest 
Stole  stealthily  into  her  weary  breast : 
And  she  sadly  murmur'd,  "  I  know  not  why, 
But  I  am  a  weeper  beneath  the  sky." 

The  turbulent  tide  roll'd  up  on  the  beach, 
Then  swept  like  a  bauble  out  of  her  reach; 
And  she  mournfully  said,  "  This  is  like  my  life! 
Grand,  but  tumultuous,  and  full  of  strife ;" 
And  turning  homeward  she  trembled  with  fears, 
For  she'd  learned  the  meaning  of  bitter  tears. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  1*5 


Heavenly  Lore. 

OVER  the  weeping  past, 
Over  the  stormy  blast 
Love  spreads  her  wings ; 
Over  the  roughest  way, 
Where  deepest  shadows  lay, 
Her  light  she  flings. 

Over  the  darkest  day, 
O'er  twilight's  iron  gray, 

She  broods  and  sings ; 
But  when  she  nears  the  height, 
Where  wildest  passions  fight, 

She  droops  her  wings. 

Over  life's  dying  dream, 
Over  death's  sullen  stream, 

Her  hope  upsprings ; 
And  to  the  bleeding  cross, 
When  death's  cold  billows  toss, 

She  bids  us  cling. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


When  on  the  other  side 
Love  opes  the  portals  wide; 

And  leads  us  in  ; 
Into  that  world  of  light, 
Where  all  is  pure  delight, 

Our  souls  she  brings. 

Love  plann'd  the  gospel  feast, 
Else  we'd  not  been  a  guest, 

Honor'd  and  crown'd . 
So,  at  our  Saviour's  feet, 
Before  the  Judgment  Seat, 

We'll  cast  our  crown. 


• 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  117 


Hudson  River. 


FHE  Hudson  flows  as  it  flowed  ago 
1    When  no  bark  was  its,  but  the  light  canoe, 
Only  as  man,  with  devices  and  skill, 
Changes  its  torrent  to  answer  his  will, 
Beautiful  River,  flow,  ever  flow! 

Beautiful  River  flow  on,  ever  flow : 
Thy  mission  perform  to  the  world  below; 
Bear  to  the  ocean  thy  trophies  of  wealth, 
Give  to  our  nation  a  life-giving  health  : 
Beautiful  River,  flow,  ever  flow  ! 

Beautnul  River  flow  on,  ever  flow ! 
Though  sad  be  the  vision  of  long  ago, 
Of  the  stalwart  form  of  Indian  race, 
Of  the  tender  smiles  on  the  maiden's  face : 
Beautiful  River,  flow,  ever  flow ! 

Beautiful  River  flow  on,  ever  flow! 
Changes  have  been  on  thy  banks  since  ago, 
Changes  have  been  in  thy  forest  and  shade, 
Sad  to  the  red  man,  and  sad  to  the  maid: 
Beautiful  River,  flow,  ever  flow! 


n8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Beautiful  River  flow  on,  ever  flow ! 
Thy  war-dance  went  out  in  the  long  ago  ; 
The  bow  has  been  drawn,  the  arrow  has  sped, 
The  red  man  and  maiden  have  left  thy  shade : 
Beautiful  River,  flow,  ever  flow! 

Beautiful  River  flow  on,  ever  flow ! 
Though  gone  is  the  wigwam,  and  'gone  the  canoe  ; 
Though  war  songs  are  hush'd  in  thy  forest  and  glade, 
And  tomahawks  rust  in  a  distant  shade: 
Beautiful  River,  flow,  ever  flow  ! 

Beautiful  River  flow  on  evermore  ! 
There's  peace  on  thy  wave,  there's  peace  on  thy  shore. 
The  finger  of  Heaven  has  molded  thy  bed; 
And  girded  it  in  by  thy  emerald  shade: 
Beautiful  River,  flow,  ever  flow  ! 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET  119 


The  Shores  Beyond. 

ID  RE  AM  of  a  world  where  falls  no  blight 
Where  the  flow'rs  bloom  in  eternal  light 
Where  earth's  weary  children  feel  no  pain, 
Where  friends,  long  sever'd,  unite  again. 

Tis  sweet  to  dream  of  that  Far  Away, 
So  radiant  bright  with  heaven's  day, 
Of  missing  ties  from  our  household  band, 
Waiting  us  there,  in  that  happy  land. 

Those  radiant  shores  of  endless  bliss, 
Where  love  chills  not,  as  it  does,  in  this, 
Loom  strangely  bright  on  my  weary  way, 
Shedding  its  light  on  the  darkest  day. 

What  were  our  life  if  no  promise  lay 

Hid  in  the  hand  of  Infinity  ? 

If  impuissance  girded  the  Throne? 

If  failure  blazoned  our  Saviour's  Crown? 


120  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


But  thanks  to  our  Lord,  who  conquered  death, 

And  led  the  way  for  our  fainting  faith, 

Up  to  the  shores  of  celestial  light, 

Up  to  the  throne  of  the  God  of  Might. 

Thanks  to  the  loving,  the  Triune  One ; 
Thanks  for  the  gift  of  God's  only  Son ; 
Sinful  and  weary,  we  urge  no  plea, 
But,  Dearest  Fat  her  >  "Christ  died  for  me? 


A  IK  rli$  MA  RID) 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  121 


Is  My  Brother  Sad  And  Needy? 


r 


Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my 
brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  Me." 

S  my  brother  sad  and  needy  ? 

I  must  lend  a  helping  hand  : 
True,  my  purse  is  almost  empty, 

Yet  it  is  my  Lord's  command ; 
And  my  faith  is  sadly  wanting, 

If  I  pause  for  Why  ?  or  Where  ? 

Is  my  table  crowned  with  blessings 
When  a  wand'rer  nears  my  door; 

Never  asking  for  the  messings, 
Yet  I  know  that  she  is  poor? 

Not  the  crumbs  from  table  falling, 
But  my  blessings  she  must  share. 

Does  the  widow  and  the  orphan 

Look  in  vain  for  friendly  aid, 
While  I  hold  the  dainty  corban 

Fill'd  with  what  might  meet  their  need? 
Then  its  gold  or  silver  coinage, 

Or  its  scrip  is  surely  theirs, 


122  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Tears  unnumber'd  fall  around  us, 
Bitter,  burning,  hungry  tears ; 

Can  my  heart  or  hand  be  stainless 
If  I  shut  my  eyes  and  ears  ? 

Never  list'ning  to  earth's  wailings, 
Never  see  her  shiv'ring  fears  ? 

In  the  great  eternal  future,  ,^ 

When  we  all  meet  face  to  face, 

And  my  deeds  unclasp  their  garner, 
Shall  I  stand  with  heart  at  ease, 

Hearing  from  my  blessed  Saviour, 
"  Done  to  me,  when  done  to  these  ?" 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  123, 


Wail  Of  The  Deep. 

WAIL  on,  thou  ever-sounding  deep  ! 
Wail  on,  nor  hush  thy  wail  to  sleep ! 
For  what  would  be  a  lull  to  thee, 
Would  seal  the  proud  ship's  destiny ; 
Wail  on,  thou  deep,  wail  on ! 

Wail  on,  thou  ever-sounding  deep! 
Wail,  for  the  sailor's  silent  sleep 
Within  thy  caverns,  dank  and  low, 
Where  flow'rs  bloom  not,  nor  breezes  blow 
Wail  on,  thou  deep,  wail  on  ! 

Wail  on,  thou  ever-sounding  deep  ! 
For  loved  ones,  'neath  thy  waves,  asleep, 
Guard  well,  oh  deep  !  that  mold'ring  urn, 
Till  God  shall  bid  thee,  make  return ; 
Wail  on,  thou  deep,  wail  on ! 


124  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Wail  on,  thou  ever-sounding  deep  ! 
For  millions,  rock'd  to  gentle  sleep, 
For  sad  hearts,  round  the  altar-stone, 
Who  weep  the  loved  and  missing  tone; 
Wail  on,  thou  deep,  wail  on! 

Wail!  for  a  day  is  coming  fast, 
When  at  the  trumpet's  waking  blast, 
Thy  wave  shall  yield  its  sleeping  clay, 
And  thou,  thyself,  be  passed  away. 
Wail  on,  thou  deep,  wail  on ! 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Trilling  Of  The  Past. 

THERE'S  a  deeper  tone  to-day, 
And  a  mournful  sadder  lay ; 
A  trilling  undertone, 
From  days  forever  gone, 
Solemn  and  Slow. 

It  is  ling'ring  in  the  gale ; 
It  is  whisp'ring  in  the  vale ; 
Of  days,  forever  gone, 
Of  hopes  forever  flown, 
Tender  and  low. 

But  the  tone  grows  sadder  still ; 
And  a  deeper,  deeper  trill 
Is  trembling  on  a  word, 
From  mem'ry's  melting  chord 
Of  long  ago. 

It  is  childhood's  laughing  day, 
With  its  merry,  blithesome  lay; 
And  voices  far  away, 
Dirged  on  the  heart's  sad  key, 
That  grades  the  tone. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

It  has  come,  uncall'd,  to-day, 
From  a  deep-ton'd,  sadden'd  key, 
That  wakes  a  mournful  strain, 
I  may  not  hear  again, 
In  earthly  hall. 

But  above  this  hamper'd  life, 
And  above  its  stormy  strife. 
Will  dirge  no  sadden'd  tone, 
Of  joys,  forever  flown, 
Solemn  and  Slow. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Never  Despair. 

THE  clock  told  the  hour  of  midnight, 
My  heart  was  battling  with  care, 
But  time  strode  onward  in  his  flight, 
And  whisper'd,  "  Never  Despair!"] 

Yet  my  heart  still  urged  its  sorrow, 

The  grief  of  many  a  year ; 
Time  stood  on  the  verge  of  th'  morrow, 

And  whisper'd,  "  Never  Despair!" 

I  glimps'd  at  the  far-gone  Backward, 
With  a  hush'd,  but  trembling  fear ; 

Time  pointed  the  arrow  forward, 
And  whisper'd,  "  Never  Despair  !" 

"Tis  sad,"  I  said,  "  for  shadows  fall 
Over  landscapes,  once  all  fair ;" 

Time  pointed  to  the  starry  hall, 
And  whisper'd,  "  Never  Despair  I" 

Again,  I  tried  to  read,  "  A //  bright f" 

And  forget  corroding  care, 
Time,  blithely,  rode  the  sable  night, 

And  whisper'd,  "  Never  Despair!" 


128  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


But  not  content ;  "  'Tzs  all  dark  night? 

I  bitterly  breathed  in  fear ; 
Time  strode  the  realms  of  starry  height, 

And  whisper'd.  "  Never  Despair  !  " 

I  girded  closer  my  vesture, 
To  shield  from  the  frosty  air ; 

And  learn'd  in  the  Holy  Scripture, 
I  never  had  cause  for  fear. 

God  folds  up  the  stormy  future, 
In  His  hand  of  loving  light; 

And  holds  out  the  fairest  picture, 
To  our  faith's  far-seeing  sight. 

Faith  beholds  the  cloudy  pillars, 
All  fring'd  with  eternal  love ; 

Dark  curtains,  drawn  back  by  fingers, 
Reach'd  down  from  windows  above. 

She  sees  when  the  storms  are  greatest, 
There  are  mercies  sifting  through ; 

And  knows,  when  the  waves  are  deepest, 
There  are  coral  groves  below. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  129 


Retrospection. 

A  PILGRIM  halted  at  the  gate  of  years, 
And  backward  glanc'd  along  the  weary  way 
Of  crowded  cares,  and  hopes,  and  trembling  fears  ; 

Till  darkness  settled  down  upon  the  day, 
The  day  of  busy  thought,  of  sad  regret, 
Gone  on  before  her  to  the  judgment  seat. 

Star  after  star  grew  dim,  but  still  she  stood 
In  mute  reviewance  of  the  alter'd  scene  ; 

Each  fond  hope,  snapp'd  beneath  the  tempest  rude, 
Lay  at  her  feet,  no  more  to  live  again  : 

No  more  to  live,  till  in  yon  region  fair, 

Faith  grasps  the  prize,  the  fond  heart  cherish'd  here. 

Cloud  after  cloud  swept  by,  she  saw  them  not, 
The  wind  howl'd  past,  she  heeded  not  its  tone ; 

To  her  there  was  but  one,  one  ling'ring  thought, 
The  thought  that  earth  was  desolate  and  lone ; 

Star  after  star  had  set,  and  fond  hopes  fled, 

The  gifted  and  the  beautiful  were  dead. 

The  evening  tide  had  passed,  and  midnight  came, 
Starless  and  cold,  and  silent  as  the  tomb  ; 

No  fire  awaiting  with  its  lambent  flame, 

To  light  the  wand'rer  back  to  friends  and  home ; 

Yet  there  she  stood,  an  evanescent  speck, 

Being  of  thought,,  but,  what  a  fearful  wreck ! 


i3o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

"Tis  cold,"  at  last,  she  said,  "and  I'm  alone ! 

"  Alone,  great  God,  how  dark,  this  earth  to  me  I 
Upon  my  ear,  falls  but  the  strange,  cold  tone, 

The  bitter  tone,  of  cold  mortality  ; 
To  me  extends  no  more,  the  friendly  hand  ; 
Earth  has  become  a  drear  and  desert  land. 

"  Not  always  thus,  my  path  was  strewn  with  flow'rs, 
And  friends  and  love  were  gathered  at  my  board  ; 

Wealth  lingered  in  my  stately  halls  and  bow'rs, 
And  loving  kindness  breathed  in  every  word : 

But  now,  alas  !  the  cold  world  colder  grows, 

And  earthly  pleasures  end  in  bitter  woes. 

Where  am  I  now  ?     The  way  is  dimly  seen, 
The  future  looms  before,  yet  dimmer  still : 

I  linger  in  this  dark  and  stormy  scene, 
Only,  by  my  Great  Father's  loving  will  : 

What  lies  beyond  ?     I  can  but  dimly  see 

A  mansion  in  my  Father's  house  for  me." 

But  dimly  seen  !     Poor  wand'rer  from  God's  love, 
Kecall'd  at  last,  to  drink  this  bitter  cup  ; 

Then  dimly  trace  in  that  bright  world  above, 
The  outline  of  a  mansion  looming  up  : 

To  feel,  God's  love  would  shortly  part  the  screen, 

That  held  her  back  from  that  transcendant  scene. 

A  friendly  ear  had  heard ;  yes,  there  was  one, 

Who  listen'd  to  that  tale  of  long  ago  ; 
Who  knew  her,  ere  all  things  were  dark  and  lone, 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  131 


Before  she  quaff 'd  that  brimming'  cup  of  woe  ; 
He  understood,  why  from  those  heart  chords  float 
Such  sadden'd  tone  and  wild,  discordant  note. 

The  morning  dawned  again,  but  not  to  her, 
In  this  dark  world  of  sorrow  and  of  sin  : 

But  let  us  hope  that  on  the  other  shore, 

The  sever'd  household-links  have  met  again  : 

Met  in  that  mansion,  dimly  seen  by  her, 

Before  her  exit  from  our  earthly  shore. 


i32  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


I  Lore  Autumn  And  Its  Weird-like  Scenery* 

VTlS  autumn,  cheerless  autumn  !  so  some  say  ; 
1    Autumn,  with  all  its  stern  and  dark  array, 
Autumn,  with  all  its  tints  of  light  and  shade, 
Has  touch'd  its  foot  to  every  wood  and  glade. 

Yet  autumn,  with  its  dark  forbidding  mien, 
Its  ragged  drapery,  and  its  breezes  keen, 
Draws  with  its  iron  pen  a  scene  sublime, 
A  sadly  chasten'd  scene  ;  'tis  nature's  rhyme. 

To  me,  this  season  brings  a  chalice  rare, 

Fill'd  with  the  bounties  of  my  Father's  care  ; 

I  love  its  fading  leaf,  its  feeblest  sigh ! 

Though  each  proclaims  the  truth,  "  that  all  must  die."* 

I  love  its  deep,  low  tone,  its  howling  blast, 

Its  tatter'd  robe  that  speaks  a  summer  past ; 

Its  very  sadness  bears  a  secret  pow'r, 

And  breathes  a  deeper  charm  through  hall  and  bow'iv 

I  love  its  darken'd  sky,  its  sombre  gloom, 
They  faintly  paint  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 
Deep  desolation  sits  on  every  breath, 
I  love  it  still  for  this^  though  speaking  death. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  133 


The  Promise  of  God  is  the  Christian's 
Coyenant  Bow. 

IT  lay  on  the  sky  of  life's  stormy  eve, 
Like  the  beautiful  bow  of  heaven  ; 
And  spoke  of  a  world  where  spirits  ne'er  grieve ; 
'Twas  the  peace-bow  to  Christians  given. 

Twas  the  covenant  bow  of  our  Triune  God, 

'Twas  a  seal  of  our  sins  forgiven  ; 
'Twas  his  stooping  down  from  his  high  abode, 

From  his  glorious  throne  of  heaven. 

A  scepter,  held  out  to  the  spirit's  gaze, 
In  the  hands  of  a  precious  Saviour  ; 

Fett'ring  the  storm  and  lifting  the  haze, 
As  they  gather  over  death's  river. 

Oh,  beautiful  bow,  to  our  spirit's  eye  ! 

O'erarching  our  pathway  to  heaven, 
Still  smile  on  our  life  here,  beneath  the  sky, 

As  its  fetters  are  being  riven. 


134  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


God  All  in  All. 


HOW  deeply  bedded  is  the  eternal  mind, 
In  all  that  lock,  unlock,  loosen  or  bind; 
The  universe  of  thought  or  skill  divine  ; 
Planning,  maturing,  twining  line  by  line — 
Smoothing  its  pathway  as  it  mounts  on  high, 
To  thread  the  vestibule  of  azure  sky, 
And  number  out  the  worlds,  that  roll  along 
In  their  soft  harmony  of  endless  song. 

The  tiniest  wing  upon  the  smallest  mite, 
Inlocks  the  wisdom  of  the  God  of  might, 
And  every  line  that  marks  the  vital  thread, 
Was  plann'd  by  Him,  and  by  His  spirit  fed; 
Till  to  the  eye,  a  wing  surpassing  bright, 
Lay  tamboured  on  a  web  of  living  light ; 
And  yet,  it  was  a  part  of  the  great  Whole, 
That  lives,  and  moves,  and  animates  the  Soul. 

So  do  the  floating  worlds,  that  gild  with  light, 
And  wrap  their  sheen  about  the  brow  of  night, 
Move  in  His  strength,  shine  in  His  dazzling  ray, 
Exist  in  Him,  the  Truth,  the  Life,  the  Way  ; 
And  with  the  light  of  their  ten  thousand  eyes 
Beckon  us  onward  to  the  heavenly  prize, 
To  mix  and  mingle  in  the  life  of  Him, 
Apart  from  whom,  the  universe  were  dim. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


135 


Should  God  withdraw  one  spark  of  His  great  light. 
Our  reason  reels  to  dark,  chaotic  night ; 
Or  take  the  breath  of  life,  we  hold  in  trust, 
Then  sinks  the  earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ; 
So  close  a  part  and  parcel  of  the  Whole, 
Is  man's  existing,  thinking,  reasoning  soul ; 
Unwrapt  of  Him — there  is  no  power  to  stay 
The  undying  death,  but  for  another  day. 


136  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


"  Come  Unto  Me." 


"  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor,  and  are  heavy-laden,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest."  Matt,  xi :  28. 

LIST  !  a  moment !     Christ  is  calling, 
"  Come — oh  sinner — come  to  me  ; " 
Heed  His  Spirit's  tender  warning, 
Come— for  Christ  has  room  for  thee. 

Come — salvation  now  is  ready, 

Robes  await  each  needy  guest ; 
All  may  come — the  weak  and  weary 

Find  in  Christ  a  perfect  rest. 

Come,  the  spirit  still  is  waiting, 

Come,  ye  heavy-laden,  come, 
Time  is  fleeting — death  is  hasting, 

Come  to  Christ,  while  yet  there's  room. 

Room  for  every  grieving  sinner, 

Room  for  every  burdened  soul ; 
Room  for  thee,  oh  brother  !  sister, 

Room  for  all,  in  heaven's  goal. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  137 


Earth  a  Mite  in  God's  Great  Universe. 


WHEN  the  circling  years  in  their  onward  flight 
Have  nestled  themselves  in  the  locks  of  night, 
A  night  from  whose  brow  the  stars  have  all  gone, 
A  night  that  shall  never  go  out  in  dawn ; 
Then  the  Sun  shall  no  longer  gild  our  day, 
And  time,  even  time,  shall  be  passed  away. 

Let  us  look  in  the  depths  of  the  evermore, 
Whose  great  beginnings  were  of  long  before  ; 
Ere  rounding  cycles  or  seasons  were  known, 
Or  earth  had  been  born,  worlds  girded  God's  throne — 
What  a  mite  art  thou,  Oh  thou  rolling  sphere, 
Where  billions  on  billions  speak  up  to  God's  ear 

A  mite  from  the  feather  of  rolling  spheres, 
Swaddled  in  beauty  and  cradled  in  tears  ; 
Taking  thy  life  with  thy  infantile  hand, 
Sowing  death-pangs  o'er  the  face  of  the  land  ; 
Reading  thy  doom  in  the  moments  that  pass ; 
And  dying  by  inches  as  dieth  the  grass. 

Yet,  Who  can  define  thy  immensity  ? 
Or  measure  thy  bounds  to  eternity  ? 
Who  gather  the  folds  of  thy  evening  and  morn, 
And  tell  us,  "  This  moment,  creation  was  born  ?" 
We  stand  in  amaze  ;  and  thought  questions  thought, 
While  seeking  the  point,  where  earth  sprang  from 
naught. 


J-38  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Earth's  Brimming  Tears. 

I'VE  stemm'd  the  tide  for  many  years, 
And  gather'd  up  its  brimming  tears  ; 
But  sadly  found,  when  all  was  done, 
That  there  remain'd  an  undertone, 
Which  swept  creation  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  bore  fresh  tears  to  every  door. 

The  earth  was  parched,  the  pools  were  dry, 
Yet  brimming  tears  fell  from  the  eye  ; 
Fell  in  all  seasons,  drop  by  drop, 
As  though  earth  were  one  brimming  cup  ; 
And  all  her  hopes  and  all  her  cheers 
Were  nourish'd  by  her  burning  tears. 

Smiles,  steeped  in  anguish,  dark  and  deep, 
Fled  the  gay  scenes,  to  pine  and  weep  ; 
And  none  could  guess,  the  fiery  eye 
Had  drank  from  fountains  seldom  dry  ; 
Fountains  of  tears  concealed  from  earth, 
But  often  fed  by  halls  of  mirth. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  139. 


Earth  grades  her  mission  to  beguile, 

And  meets  her  friends  with  wreathing  smile ; 

Shuts  tightly  up  each  weeping  thought, 

That  might  o'ershade  a  sunny  spot ; 

And  none  may  know  the  hidden  pool 

Of  tear-drops,  welling  o'er  the  soul 

Blest  Saviour,  in  thine  earth  abode, 
Thou,  too,  didst  tread  this  tearful  road ; 
And  smoothed  the  roughness  of  the  way, 
To  pilgrim  feet,  where'er  they  stray ; 
Teach  us,  midst  darkness,  doubts  and  fears, 
To  prize  the  gift  of  falling  tears. 


i4o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Go,  Work  for  God. 


GO,  work  for  God !  the  time  is  short 
A  few,  fleet  hours  may  be  thy  all : 
Leave  hoarded  gain,  and  idle  sport — • 
Go,  seek  thy  Saviour,  hear  his  call. 

Work!  for  the  time  is  drawing  nigh, 
When  those,  who  loiter  on  the  way, 

Will  hear  the  midnight  warning  cry, 

"The  Bridegroom  corneth,  hear!  obey!" 

Labor  and  pray  !  while  yet  there's  room  ; 

Thy  toil  on  earth  will  soon  be  done  : 
Soon  comes  the  call,  "  My  child,  come  home  / 

Thine  is  the  victor's  golden  crpwa" 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  141 


Mississippi  River. 

T^ATHER  of  waters,  in  thy  mighty  flow, 
JL   Thou  hid'st  a  record  'neath  thy  waves  below ; 
From  Minnesota's  lofty,  brimming  cup, 
Thou  leap'st  into  thy  Heaven-girded  scope: 
And  onward  in  the  awful  stretch  of  years, 
Thy  restless  wave  has  drunk  unnumber'd  tears; 
And  swallow'd  up — thy  billows  never  tell 
How  many  weeping  hopes,  in  thy  vast  swell. 

Rugged  in  outline — girded  in,  by  hills — 
Fed  by  vast  torrents  and  the  rippling  rills, 
Fann'd  by  the  breezes  from  the  South  and  Nor^h, 
Kiss'd  by  all  bright  things,  in  their  springing  forth; 
River,  strange  scenes  have  stalked  along  thy  side, 
Strange  tones  have  gone  out,  with  thy  ebbing  tide; 
River,  vast  river,  thy  unfathom'd  dower, 
Came  from  the  Hand  of  God's  Omnific  Power. 

River,  roll  on,  with  thy  wearisome  lay, 
Tun'd  to  the  chord  of  a  far  gone-by-day, 
A  lay  ever  stealing  over  thy  breast, 
In  its  mournfully  sad  and  strange  unrest; 
Murm'ring  of  terrace  and  lofty  arcade, 
Of  beautiful  aisles  in  the  forest  shade, 
Of  the  giant  form,  elastic  and  proud, 
Folded  asleep  in  oblivion's  shroud. 


i42  i  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


We  pierce  thy  past  depths  for  records  agone — 
Echoless,  tongueless,  thy  depths  give  back  none ; 
But  rolling  on,  ever  stayless  and  stern, 
Over  the  gems  that  can,  never  return  ; 
While  sad  melancholy  still  broods  o'er  thy  tide, 
Which,  roughly  or  smoothly,  will  seaward  glide, 
Coming  again,  when  long  ages  have  fled, 
To  retrace  its  pathway  over  the  dead. 

Vast  Mississippi,  flow  on,  then,y&?ze;  on, 
And  mingle  the  future  with  long  agone  : 
Thy  record  is  safe  in  archives  above, 
Register'd  there,  by  the  Finger  of  love — 
Back  in  past  ages,  where  thought  mutely  stares, 
Christ  has  recorded  the  wheat  and  the  tares; 
Written  each  name  on  eternity's  page, 
From  the  infant-day  to  the  hoary  sage. 

9 

And  there  shall  I  meet  the  spirits  of  yore, 
Stepping  out  from  ages  along  thy  shore ; 
The  artistic  molder  of  other  times, 
The  hewer  and  gilder  of  other  climes, 
The  vast  generations  of  every  shade, 
The  sculptor  and  painter  of  every  grade, 
The  innocent  babe  and  the  man  of  crime ; 
Each  from  his  niche,  in  the  great  wall  of  Time. 

There,  from  the  wave  of  thy  long-sweeping  surf, 
There,  from  the  dust  of  thy  down-trodden  turf; 
Strangely  commingled  and  strangely  agaze, 
Spring  to  existence  the  great  sweeping  mass- 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  143 

Reason  gropes  blindly,  and  thought  stands  aghast, 
While  viewing  the  future,  present  and  past ; 
Mind  wild'ringly  grasps  at  the  faintest  gleam 
Wandering  at  will,  on  eternity's  rim. 

Yea,  all  will  be  There!  Mississippi,  all! 
No  particle  left  in  thy  sleeping  hall — 
Yea,  all  will  be  there,  but  not  there  to  stay — 
Thy  basin  of  waves  must  be  passed  away : 
The  forms  thou  hast  lull'd  to  their  silent  rest, 
The  dust  thou  hast  gather'd  within  thy  breast, 
Will  pass  from  thy  wave  and  gravelly  sod, 
Up  to  the  judgment  assembly  of  God. 


i44  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Hermit  of  Niagara. 

"  Francis  Abbot,  or  the  hermit  of  Niagara,  arrived  at  the  Falls, 
June,  1829.  He  was  enveloped  in  a  loose  dress,  and  bore  under 
his  arms  a  roll  of  blankets,  a  flute,  a  portfolio,  and  a  large  book. 
These  were  his  all,  and  thus  equipped,  he  spent  two  years  in  the 
contemplation  of  this  vast  and  stupendous  wonder,  but  on  the 
loth  of  June,  1831,  he  was  found  a  corpse,  having,  as  was  sup- 
posed, drowned  himself." 

The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  reading  the  sad  event : 

TTIAGARA  had  wreathed  around  its  crest 
JLi    A  thousand  rainbows  from  the  summer's  breast ; 
And  from  its  wat'ry  wing  with  awful  might 
Shook  down  the  billows  to  a  rayless  night ; 

When  to  its  rolling,  heaving,  leaping  throne, 
There  came  a  trav'ler,  young,  but  sad  and  lone, 
Drawn  by  its  fame  he  seeks  its  plunging  tide, 
To  drink  from  nature  draughts  that  art  denied. 

Its  wildest  freaks  to  him  seemed  but  a  play, 
Wrought  in  the  depths  of  vast  Infinity, 
And  its  deep  loneness  round  his  life- path  flung 
All  man  had  written,  all  that  bards  had  sung. 

He  tuned  the  lyre  to  its  discordant  note, 
Its  dashing  waves  aw6ke  his  sleeping  flute  : 
And  o'er  its  wat'ry  waste  and  heaving  surge, 
Mingling  they  rise,  then  sink,  a  wailing  dirge. 


THE  PRATRIE  CASKET.  145 


But  hushed  forever  is  the  tuneful  lyre, 
And  mute  the  tongue  that  joined  the  sylvan  choir; 
Nerveless  the  hand  that  bade  the  plaintive  lay 
Swell  on  the  chord,  and  ride  the  sweeping  spray. 

Far  from  the  scenes  of  childhood's  guileless  hours, 
From  home  endearments  and  affection's  bow'rs, 
To  seek  Niagara,  the  world  he  flies, 
Lives  in  its  noise,  and  in  its  grandeur  dies. 

But  he  is  dead,  his  waking  music  o'er, 
No  more  will  roil  along  Niagara's  shore; 
And  distant  friends  perchance  may  read  his  fate, 
And  burning  tears  his  mem'ry  celebrate. 


i46  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


A  Weary  Pilgrim. 

POOR  pining  voyager!  art  thou  weary  grown  ? 
And  does  thy  yearning  spirit  seek  a  home  ? 
A  home  below — a  shad'wy  fleeting  thing — 
Earth  has  it  not — heav'n  may  the  blessing  bring. 

Then  turn  from  earth  to  that  bright  world  above, 
Where  care,  and  fear,  and  pain  are  lost  in  love  ; 
Turn  thou  to  God,  Author  of  endless  rest, 
And  seek  from  Him  a  home  among  the  blest. 

Yet  if  thy  foot  again  o'er  earth  must  roam, 
Seeking  for  thee  a  spot  to  call  a  home, 
And  finding  not  should  mourn  the  shadow  lost 
And  still  toil  on  weary  and  tempest-toss'd, 

Despair  not — 'tis  the  path  thy  Saviour  trod — 
When  us  to  save  He  left  his  high  abode; 
Trust  Him,  and  from  this  evanescent  home 
He'll  take  thee,  lone  one,  to  His  own  dear  dome. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  147 


Autumn  Wanderings. 

WHERE  the  leaves  are  falling  in  the  forest  shade, 
And  the  sunshine  slanting  on  the  mountain  grade; 
And  the  lightest  footfall  gives  an  answering  tone, 
There  we  used  to  wander  in  the  days  agone. 

When  the  song-birds'  singing  wove  a  deeper  tone, 
And  the  echoes'  ringing  seem'd  more  sadly  lone ; 
When  the  autumn  scenery  on  the  landscape  slept, 
With  its  tinted  drapery  round  its  bosom  wrapt, 

By  the  limpid  fountains,  gurgling  as  they  flow, 
On  the  rugged  mountain,  sloping  down  so  low ; 
In  the  shaded  valley,  lying  strangely  still, 
With  its  startling  beauty  mirror'd  in  the  rill ! 

Listening  to  earth's  carol  when  the  day  was  calm, 
And  the  sweet  Evangel  swept  the  world  with  balm ; 
None  can  ever  pencil  thing  so  passing  fair 
As  those  autumn  rambles,  with  the  loved  ones  near. 


J48  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Days  so  very  lovely,  ye  will  come  no  more  ! 
Tho'  a  new-born  autumn  yearly  drape  our  shore ; 
But  a  Christian's  autumn  having  spun  its  thread, 
Weaves  a  brighter  emblem — "  departed  " — "  not  dead? 

Then  thou  fleeting  autumn,  pass,  oh,  pass  thee  on! 
Lay  thy  with'ring  emblems  with  the  things  agone, 
For  a  moment-season,  just  a  fleeting  breath, 
Then  thy  mournful  mission  meets  the  fate  of  death. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  i49 


A  Scene  At  Sea. 


TTUTFULLY  twining  his  golden  thread 
-L    The  sun  look'd  down  on  the  ocean-bed, 
While  young  life  leapt  through  the  dashing  spray ; 
With  its  finny  circlets  out  at  play. 

But  not  to  these  was  flung  out  the  thread 
That  lit  the  turf  for  an  ocean-bed ; 
Though  in  the  depths  of  the  sea  lay  one, 
Just  fall'n  to  sleep  on  an  ocean-stone. 

Silently,  playing  with  sail  and  shroud, 
As  from  his  disc  swept  a  fleecy  cloud, 
The  sun  sent  a  bright  and  loving  ray 
Among  some  friends  where  an  infant  lay. 

'Mongst  weeping  ones  who  had  brought  their  dead 

To  part  the  wave  to  its  ocean  bed, 

To  part  the  wave  while  a  farewell  strain 

Pass'd  with  the  surf  of  the  heaving  main. 

Wistfully  gazing,  the  sunbeam  fell 
Straight  in  the  path  to  the  ocean-dell, 
Warming  a  nook  in  a  coral  grove, 
Where  angels  hover  with  wings  of  love. 


150  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Cheerily  weaving  a  golden  shred, 
Its  new-found  tongue  to  the  ocean  said, 
"'Tis  not  for  thee,  in  thy  proudest  might, 
I  fast'n  my  threads  to  thy  depths  to-night." 

"  Lovingly,  gently,  oh,  rolling  sea ! 
An  empty  casket  I  bring  to  thee ; 
To  thy  charge  is  giv'n  a  holy  trust — 
Guard  it,  for  thou  must  restore  its  dust, 

"  I  wove  its  crown  of  the  Sunbeam-hues, 
Its  cradle  gemm'd  with  the  morning  dews  * 
Its  crystal  curtains  were  thine  of  old, 
I  looped  them  back  with  a  pin  of  gold. 

"  The  lullaby  tone  is  not  of  me, 

That  is  thy  dower,  oh,  moaning  sea!    : 

Though  waves  may  clash  with  storm  after  storm, 

Let  nothing  but  whispers  reach  that  form. 

f*  Loving  and  gentle  thy  tones,  oh,  sea ! 
The  softest  that  fan  the  flow'ry  lea ; 
But  mine  be  the  task,  with  golden  ray, 
To  kiss  the  spot  as  I  pass  this  way." 

Silently,  sadly,  that  undertone 
Went  out,  and  the  imagery  had  flown  ; 
The  waves  sped  on  with  their  wonted  speed, 
But  th'  infant's  epitaph  none  may  read. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  151 


The  sunbeam  will  kiss  that  spot  again, 
The  ocean  murmur  a  sad  refrain ; 
But  Jehovah's  hand  had  spann'd  the  lot 
Where  sleeps  the  babe  in  his  crystal  cot 


Swiftly  and  gaily  the  ship  swept  on, 
Swept,  too,  the  breeze  in  its  undertone ; 
But  sad  to  the  mother,  for  seas  roll'd 
Over  her  infant,  its  billows  cold. 

As  day  after  day  the  ship  strode  on, 
Paler  she  grew,  and  more  sadly  wan  ; 
She  could  only  see  her  silent  dead, 
And  waves  sweeping  o'er  his  gentle  head. 

Silently,  sadly,  the  time  pass'd  on, 
And  two  whole  days  had  already  gone ; 
The  third  was  swiftly  passing  away, 
Bearing  our  deeds  to  the  King  of  day. 

Gallantly  dipping  the  brilliant  sun 
Sunk  in  the  West,  and  evening  began  ; 
When  a  spirit  pass'd  from  strange  unrest 
Up  to  the  realm  of  the  holy  blest. 


152  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Strangely  and  sadly  one  mourner  stood 
Bending  in  grief  o'er  the  sweeping  flood ; 
The  dirge  was  ended — gentle  and  slow 
Sank  the  last  tie  to  the  depths  below. 

The  last  tie  of  earth,  but  He,  who  knows 
Man's  bitterest  grief  and  deepest  woes, 
Gently  and  sweetly  said,  "Come  to  me, 
I  am  thy  God,  and  will  comfort  thee." 

The  loving  Saviour  had  call'd  them  home, 
Up  from  the  surge  of  the  ocean  foam  ; 
The  bud  was  cull'd  with  a  loving  kiss, 
It  show'd  the  mother  the  road  to  bliss. 

Sadly  but  kindly  the  spirit  wooed 
Home  from  a  sin-life — home  to  the  good; 
But  oh!  for  the  crush'd  and  bleeding  heart, 
When  cords  are  riven,  and  mate-links  part. 

Roughly  or  smoothly,  he  sees  not  why 
The  ship  should  move,  or  the  breezes  sigh  ; 
For  a  chilling  power,  dark  and  dread, 
Has  cumbered  his  life-wheels — hope  is  dead- 
Dead  !  and  will  it  never  live  again  ? 
Will  light  ne'er  shine  in  that  weary  brain  ? 
Yes,  shine  it  will,  for  the  sever'd  chain 
Will  surely  meet  and  unite  again, 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  153 

» 

Then,  swiftly  and  gently  roll,  Time-Sea ! 
We've  blessed  links  in  Eternity, 
Torn  from  the  chain  of  affection's  fold, 
Leaving  our  world  all  dark  and  all  cold. 

Then  roll — Time — roll  to  the  crystal  sea 
In  the  depths  of  God's  eternity; 
Bear  us  along  to  the  radiant  shore, 
Where  is  no  weeping  nor  sinning  more. 


154  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Fleetness  of  Time. 


OUR  fleeting  days  will  soon  be  gone, 
As  goes  the  morning  dew; 
Or  swift  as  rolls  the  setting  sun 
When  sinking  from  our  view. 

Silent !  How  silent !  yet  how  swift 

The  mighty  billows  roll ; 
No  stay,  no  stop  !     Days  onward  drift 

To  mingle  with  the  whole. 

Moment  by  moment,  step  by  step, 

We  near  the  silent  tomb  ; 
Restless,  yet  heedless,  down  the  steep, 

We  hasten  to  our  doom. 

Scarce  to  ourselves  do  we  confess 

That  we  must  surely  die  ; 
Scarce  see  earth's  hollow  emptiness, 

Scarce  hear  the  tempest  nigh  ; 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  1.55 


Till  life  is  trembling  to  be  gone, 

The  golden  bowl  to  break  : 
As  silent  sinks  the  setting  sun, 

We  sleep — when  shall  we  wake  ? 

When  shall  we  wake  ?     When  shall  we  rise  ? 

What  will  that  rising  be? 
To  mount  the  everlasting  skies  ? 

Or  sink  eternally  ? 


156  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


There  is  a  Higher  Law  than  Our  Constitution. 

YES,  there  is  a  law  of  heaven  ! 
High  and  holy,  safe  and  sure; 
Boundless  as  God's  broad  dominion, 
Binding  as  its  Source  is  pure. 

Is  there  one  that  dare  deny  it  ? 

One,  this  side  the  world  of  woe, 
That  can  doubt  this  truth  one  moment  ? 

That  can  sink  his  hopes  so  low  ? 

For  our  country,  for  the  nation, 

For  thy  never-dying  soul  ; 
Give  to  God  thy  recognition — 

Bow  thee,  to  His  wise  control. 

If  no  pow'r,  but  earthly,  rule  us, 

If  no  higher  law,  we  know ; 
Fearful  is  the  day  before  us  ! 

Dreadful  is  the  crushing  blow ! 

By  the  terrors  of  a  judgment, 

If  thy  conscience  be  not  sear ; 
By  the  dread  of  self-abasement, 

Heaven's  higher  law  revere. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  157 


The  Scenes  of  Earth. 

HOW  varied  are  the  scenes  of  earth, 
How  tranquil,  then  how  wild  ; 
From  proud  ambition's  lofty  berth, 
To  meek  religion's  child. 

From  the  stern  monarch  on  his  throne, 

O'er-canopied  with  gold  ; 
Down  to  the  outcast,  poor  and  lone, 

The  slave  that's  bought  and  sold. 

From  altar-stone  and  social  band, 

To  bloody  fields  of  strife ; 
Where  wrath  and  vengeance,  hand  in  hand, 

Mow  down  our  human  life. 

From  Christian  lands  where  joy  and  light, 

And  holy  brightness  reign  ; 
To  where  the  gloom  of  heathen  night, 

Broods  death  upon  the  plain. 

From  nature's  grand  and  lofty  height, 
Where  snow-peaks  kiss  the  cloud; 

To  where  the  dread  volcano's  might 
Weaves  out  a  fiery  shroud. 


158  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


From  the  sweet  streamlet  at  our  feet, 
Meandering  through  the  vale  ; 

Forth  to  the  seas,  where  rides  the  fleet, 
And  glides  the  bending  sail. 

From  fragrant  breeze  and  flow'ry  mead, 

Where  milk  and  honey  flow ; 
To  where  disease  and  famine  feed 

On  sorrow's  pallid  brow. 

From  festal  board  and  banquet  halls, 

Where  wit  and  beauty  meet; 
Down  to  the  dungeon's  guilt-stained  walls, 

The  felon's  last  retreat. 

These  are  but  few  that  mark  our  time  ! 

The  shading  comes  between  ; 
From  zone  to  zone,  from  clime  to  clime, 

Stretches  the  changing  scene. 

From  early  dawn  to  setting  sun, 

Change  presses  after  change  ; 
And  through  the  midnight  circles,  run 

The  ever  varying  range. 

E'en  we,  ourselves,  do  vary,  too, 

As  minutes  wing  their  flight ; 
The  old  physique  dies  in  the  new, 

As  bright  day  dies  in  night. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  159 

Strange  !  that  our  plaintive  tones  should  sweep 

For  troubles,  all  our  own  ; 
And  not  for  those,  who  sigh  and  weep 

In  sadness,  dark  and  lone. 

Strange !  that  a  harp  so  finely  toned, 

With  tense  but  slender  cord, 
Should  be  for  aught  on  earth  attuned ; 

Save  praises  of  our  Lord. 


160  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Flowers  for  a  Bier. 

I  SAW  a  maiden  culling  flowers  ; 
Not  for  the  golden,  festal  hours,— 
The  gaudier  set,  she  heeded  not, 
But  sought  a  lonely  little  spot, 
And  bent  her  o'er  a  fragrant  sod, 
Where  foot  of  stranger  seldom  trod. 

I  watch Jd  her,  and  her  fingers  flew 
'Mong  the  violets,  white  and  blue, 
And  lovingly,  she  kiss'd  away 
The  dew,  that  on  their  petals  lay, 
And  tenderly. — By  falling  tear, 
I  knew  she  gather'd  for  a  bier. 

I'd  learn 'd  the  Sad,  and  wept  to  see, 

Another  being,  like  to  me ; 

And  drew  from  her  this  simple  tale, 

1  These  flowers  are  for  dead  brother  Will ; 

They  are  so  very  sweet,  you  see  ; 

And  such  was  brother  Will  to  me. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  x6i 


"  I  think,  if  he  can  only  see 
These  flowers,  he  will  think  of  me ; 
And  so  I  scatter,  lady  dear  ! 
These  violets  on  his  shroud  and  bier ; 
I  cannot  see  him,  now  he's  gone, 
And,  oh  !  I  am  so  sad  and  lone  !  " 

I  thought :  "  My  gentle,  little  maid, 
Full  many  hearts,  like  thine,  have  bled  ; 
Full  many  sad  and  bitter  tears 
Have  fallen  on  earth's  humble  biers ; 
Tis  well,  if  chasten'd  agony 
Remembers,  "He  was  sweet  to  me." 


162  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


Eighteen  Years. 

JUST  eighteen  years  ago  to-night, 
Went  out  a  dying  year  ; 
Just  eighteen  years  of  hopes  all  bright, 
Looked  forth,  the  future  clear. 

Joys  clustered  round  my  pathway  then, 
Fond  friends  were  at  my  side ; 

When  o'er  a  world  of  sleeping  men, 
Went  out  year's  ebbing  tide. 

Outstretch'd  before  my  waiting  gaze, 
Were  visions  bright  and  new, 

Weaving  a  sweet  fantastic  maze, 
Along  the  enchanting  view. 

Just  eighteen  years  !  a  little  span  ! 

A  tiny  thread  of  time ; 
But  oh,  how  changeful  was  the  plan  ! 

How  mournful  and  sublime. 

Just  eighteen  years — a  motley  web  ! 

Inwrought  with  smiles  and  tears ; 
Stretching  along  life's  rugged  glebe, 

All  strangely  mark'd  with  cares. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Just  eighteen  years — and  from  my  home 
Have  pass'd  lights,  One,  Two,  Three, 

To  fill  the  mansions  of  the  tomb, 
And  deck  eternity. 

Nor  I,  alone,  this  maze  have  trod 

And  drain'd  its  bitter  cup ; 
Nor  I,  alone,  beneath  the  sod, 

My  loved  have  garner'd  up. 

For  others,  too,  have  press'd  the  sod, 

On  childhood's  sunny  brow, 
And  taught  the  willow-branch  to  nod 

Where  manhood's  form  lay  low. 

Just  eighteen  years  of  my  short  life 

Have  sped,  to  speed  no  more  ; 
Their  pains,  their  groans,  their  care  and  strife 

Have  died  on  earthly  shore. 


164  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Napoleon's  Three  Days  or  Epochs. 

A  PROUD  fleet  of  war  rode  the  ocean  plain 
To  a  sea-girt  isle  in  the  heaving  main ; 
And  from  its  cabin  an  emperor  came, 
Bearing  no  wealth,  but  a  casket  of  shame. 

A  casket  of  shame,  what  a  strange,  sad  dow'r  ! 
To  come  from  the  throne  of  a  lofty  pow'r ; 
A  casket  containing  the  deeds  of  years, 
All  painted  in  blood  and  garnish'd  with  tears. 

The  sun  threw  a  ray  on  his  burning  brow — 
A  gift  to  one  who  had  fallen  so  low — 
He  heeded  it  not  !  save  the  ocean's  tone, 
Naught  thrill'd  the  heart  of  that  desolate  one. 

But  the  monarch's  tread  was  heavy  and  slow, 
The  tones  of  'his  voice  were  of  long  ago  ; 
Yet  the  soldier  was  there,  with  martial  gleam, 
But  the  victor's  boon  had  been  all  a  dream. 

The  sun  still  gilded  the  battlements  o'er, 

And  braided  bright  tints  on  the  rock-ribb'd  shore; 

It  avail'd  him  naught,  for,  over  it  all 

Were  draped  the  dark  folds  of  a  monarch's  fall 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  165 


The  bright  world  sung  all  the  beautiful  lays 
Of  monarchs  restored,  of  happier  days  ; 
The  sad  ear  was  dull,  not  a  single  tone 
Could  renerve  the  heart  with  its  hopes  agone. 

Kindly  scenes  sprang  up  from  his  childhood's  track, 
But  his  iron  will  waved  the  picture  back  ; 
Too  brilliant  for  him,  on  that  rocky  isle, 
Too  full  of  the  pure,  too  free  from  the  guile. 

A  sigh  and  a  groan  pass'd  over  the  wave, 

Did  the  exile  dream  of  an  early  grave  ? 

Could  he  hope  aught  else  on  that  wave-girt  shore 

Where  nature's  battlements  guard  evermore  ? 

The  sunset  fell  on  that  quivering  form, 
His  courage  went  out  in  the  soul's  dark  storm — 
Feeble  man  was  there,  grown  old  in  a  day  ; 
So  strangely  all  things  pass  on  to  decay. 


Another  day,  and  the  sun  had  gone  down, 
And  over  the  heavens  had  gathered  a  frown  : 
The  ocean  was  roll'd  on  its  girding  band 
With  its  deaf  ning  roar  and  its  drifting  sand. 

The  very  heavens  seemed  bending  in  wrath, 
The  wind,  God's  chariot,  the  cloud,  His  path  ; 
And  deep  concussions,  wave  battling  with  wave, 
Seem'd  rough'ning  the  way  to  the  conq'ror's  grave. 


i66  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Midst  the  thunder-peals,  wafted  back  the  past, 
All  the  din  of  arms,  every  trumpet-blast — 
He  saw  the  great  army  move  to  its  post — 
Then  the  quick  command — Alas  !  all  was  lost! 

He  had  chosen  here  the  deadliest  strife, 
It  was  his,  in  the  winding  up  of  life : 
And  thus  he  resign'd  to  the  God  of  Host 
Every  earthly  home,  every  earthly  post. 

Not  a  single  tone  of  the  world's  applaud, 
Not  a  single  ray  from  the  conq'ror's  gaud 
Could  pass  on  with  him  o'er  that  river  deep, 
Where  such  as  man  sows  he  shall  surely  reap. 

'Twas  a  fitting  scene  ior  a  conq'ror's  death, 
The  tempest  war-steed  for  a  passing  breath  ; 
'Twas  the  last  great  conflict  on  earthly  shore, 
Then  the  spirit  passed  on  for  evermore. 


But  another  day,  in  its  onward  round, 
Then  another  vessel  is  Franceward  bound : 
What  bears  she,  that  proud  ocean's  floating  world, 
Back  to  the  walls  from  which  he  had  been  hurl'd? 

Back,  but  the  mold'ring  form — dust  to  its  dust — 
Cumber  the  soil  once  more  with  its  black  rust: 
Back  to-  thy  crystal  tide,  oh,  rolling  Seine  ! 
Here  let  thy  monarch  find  repose  agaia 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  167 

Rest,  conqueror  and  conquered,  rest  thee,  now, 
Thy  battle's  been  fought,  and  struck  thy  last  blow; 
The  last  act  been  done,  the  last  pray'r  been  said — 
Monarch  and  serf  are  alike  to  the  dead. 

So  shall  we  rest  at  last,  nor  heed  shall  we 
Whether  beside  us  lie  the  bond  or  free ; 
Enough  to  know,  our  sins  are  all  forgiven, 
And  we  accepted  of  the  King  of  Heav'n. 


i68  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Ye  Are  Not  the  Whole  Creation. 


YE  are  not  the  whole  creation 
In  this  world  of  sin  and  strife; 
There  is  not  a  single  station 
Teeming  not  with  loving  life. 

Ye  are  not  the  only  weepers, 
Earth  is  full  of  tears  and  pain ; 

Ye  are  not  the  only  gleaners, 
Picking  here  and  there  a  grain. 

Ye  are  not  the  only  tried  ones, 
Conflict  every  bosom  laves  ; 

Yours  are  not  the  only  sad  tones, 
Dirgings  fall  round  many  graves, 

Ye  are  not  the  only  sailors 

Beating  home  against  the  tide  ; 

Nor  are  ye  the  only  toilers 

On  the  mountain's  rugged  side. 

For  there  is  to  every  sailor 

Adverse  wind  and  adverse  tide ; 

And  to  leave  the  vale  the  toiler 
Must  climb  up  the  mountain  side. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  169 


Ye  are  not  the  only  builders 
In  this  pilgrimage  of  tears; 

There  are  hewers,  molders,  gilders, 
All  along  the  stretching  years. 

Ye  are  not  the  only  gifted, 
Pearls  are  in  the  stormy  sea ; 

Brightest  gems  in  rocks  unrifted, 
Never  seek  the  light  of  day. 

Ye  are  not  the  only  righteous, 
God  has  many  children  more, 

Loving  mercy,  doing  justice, 
On  our  weeping,  sinning  shore. 


i7o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Years  Have  Sped  By. 


TTEARS  have  sped  by  since  then,  rapid  and  stern 
1  Sped  on  the  wings  of  time,  not  to  return  : 
Sped  as  past  years  sped,  with  sunshine  and  shade, 
Spread  on  the  lap  of  the  forest  and  glade. 

Years  have  sped  by  since  then,  but  with  their  flight, 
Constantly  bringing  us  daylight  and  night  ; 
Comes  back  the  parting  scene,  comes  back  the  gloom ; 
Comes  back  the  voice  of  song  hush'd  in  the  tomb. 

Years  have  sped  by  since  then,  but  in  their  flight 
God  still  remembers  us  morning  and  night : 
Weeping  is  now,  but  the  morning  will  come 
When  His  sweet  voice  will  unmantle  the  tomb. 

Years  have  sped  by  since  then,  but  in  our  grief 
Summer  comes  back  again,  binding  her  sheaf: 
So  will  our  Saviour  come  in  the  last  day, 
Bringing  the  souls  He  has  garner'd  away. 

If  we  are  faithful  while  wandering  here 
We  shall  be  gather'd  with  all  we  hold  dear . 
Gather'd  to  heaven  among  all  the  blest, 
Gather'd  to  God  in  the  house  of  His  rest. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  17 1 


Spirit  of  the  Past. 

A  CROSS  the  stretching  scene,  where  years  had  died,, 
J\.  The  spirit  of  the  past  swept  to  my  side ; 
Silent  and  sad  and  haggard,  for  to  him 
Earth's  visage  had  been  dark,  and  cold,  and  grim. 

Ages  had  been  his  own — of  care  and  pain, 
Ages  of  peace  and  strife,  of  loss  and  gain ; 
And  like  a  miser  hoarding  up  his  gold, 
He  wrapp'd  them  up  in  many  a  rusty  fold. 

The  good  and  bad  he  kindly  laid  away 
In  one  dark  fold  to  wait  the  judgment  day; 
And  spread  the  turf,  and  with  paternal  care, 
Wept  o'er  the  dead  and  planted  flowers  there. 

And  they  will  sleep  as  they  have  long  time  slept, 
The  bygone  host,  unweeping  and  unwept ; 
Revolving  ages,  ever-circling  on, 
Will  lay  new  sleepers  with  the  past  and  gone. 


172  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


And  so  new  ties  will  break,  new  tears  will  flow, 
But  not  for  those,  the  host  of  long  ago  ; 
And  the  cold  fingers  of  the  future  years 
Will  make  new  shrouds  o'er  which  will '  flow  earth's 
tears. 

But  when  the  wheel  of  time  turns  its  last  spoke, 
Its  tolling  gong  gives  out  its  last  stern  stroke, 
No  fretting  band  will  bind  the  human  race, 
But  each  will  rise  to  fill  his  lot  and  place. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  173 


No  Disappointment  in  Heayen. 

A  N OTHER  way-mark  on  the  shores  of  time! 
-Li       Mementoes    sad — all — scorch'd   with    burning 

tears ; 
Yet  whisp'ring  of  a  happier,  brighter  clime, 

Where  deathless  love  gives  back  no  answering  fears 

I  would  not,  He  should  know  how  we  have  toiled, 
How  we  have  fear'd  and  wept,  and  wept  and  fear'd  ; 

How  gleaming  hopes  went  out,  and  plans  were  foiled* 
And  every  earthly  scene  was  marr'd  and  blear'd. 

I  would  not  have  Him  know  the  sad  distrust, 
With  which  my  being  sternly  copes  to-night, 

The  tender  yearning  for  the  sleeping  dust, 
That  was  to  us,  a  beauty  and  delight 

I  would  not  have  Him  see  the  burning  tear, 
That  leaves  its  vestige  on  the  glebe  of  time ; 

That  He  should  know  how  dark  our  life  is  here, 
Lest  it  should  dim  the  joys  of  heaven's  clime. 

But  I  would  say  to  Him,  my  Saviour,  Friend, 
We're  lonely,  and  the  way  is  rough  and  cold  ! 

Saviour,  oh,  lead  us  by  Thy  loving  hand, 
Up  to  the  portals  of  Thy  heavenly  fold ! 


i74  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


No  Safety  this  Side  of  Heaven. 

DOWN  from  the  mountain   crest  rolls  the  rough- 
grading, 

Up  through  the  misty  past,  falls  the  dark  shading, 
But  on  the  palmy  plain,  upward  nor  downward, 
Rolleth  the  stone  again,  backward  nor  forward. 

So  in  our  life's  career,  rough  the  down-grading, 
And  the  dark  mists  of  time  give  to  it  shading ; 
But  if  the  point  we'd  gain,  toil  we  must,  upward, 
For  the  dark  weight  of  sin  tends  ever-downward. 

But  ere  our  task  is  done,  pause  we  must  never, 
Toiling  through  morn  and  noon,  toiling  up  ever; 
Lest  the  pure  gems  of  thought  take  the  down-grading, 
And  we  are  left  to  doubt,  and  its  dark  shading. 

Dark  is  the  heart  of  man,  listlessly  pausing, 
Ere  he  has  reach'd  the  plain,  safe  for  reposing  ; 
But  on  the  mountain-top,  with  our  dear  Saviour, 
Nothing  can  pluck  him  hence,  now  or  forever. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  175 


A  Ride  on  the  Car. 

T)RESSING  onward  to  the  northward, 

With  the  iron  horse  before ; 
While  right  onward  from  the  southward, 
Blow  the  wild  winds,  evermore. 

Thickening  downward,  looming  upward, 
Stretch  the  cloudy  drifts  all  o'er ; 

And  from  skyward  to  the  landward, 
Flecks  the  dark  smoke  evermore. 

Rolling  offward  from  the  homeward, 
Pressing  to,  I  know  not  what ; 

Gathering  lessons  from  the  onward, 
For  our  future  life  and  lot. 

Gracious  Saviour,  Thou  canst  measure 

All  the  good  and  ills  of  life  ; 
Be  Thou,  ever  and  forever, 

Near  us  in  our  earthly  strife. 

When  from  earthward,  drift  we  outward, 
Toward  the  realm,  whence  none  return ; 

Loving  Saviour,  call  us  upward, 
To  Thy  sinless,  nightless  bourne. 


i76  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


We  May  Not  Lire  Alway. 

¥E  may  not  live  alway,  this  dark  earth  of  ours 
Sheds  too  many  death-dews,  thro'  bright  halls 

and  bow'rs ; 

And  the  light  breeze,  that  floats  o'er  woodland  and  sea 
Brings  a  kiss  from  the  tomb,  to  bondmen  and  free. 

Man  may  not  live  alway,  his  heart  finds  no  rest, 
'Midst  brightest  enjoyments,  pain  still  is  his  guest ; 
And  when  earth  is  gayest,  and  brightest  her  sky, 
The  death  storm  is  gath'ring,  the  death  pang  is  nigh. 

Man  would  not  live  alway,  his  upstretching  thought 
Craves  some  brighter  region,  where  sin  leaves  no  blot ; 
And  the  undying  soul,  now  fetter'd  by  clay, 
But  waits  for  the  summons,  to  up  and  away. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  ^77 


Keep  Wateh  and  Ward  To-day ! 

KEEP  watch  and  ward  to-day!  a  stealthy  foe 
Is  lurking  in  the  way  that  thou  must  go  ; 
Keep  watch  and  ward  to-day !  e'en  at  thy  post, 
Thy  foe  may  thee  betray,  and  thou  be  lost. 

Keep  watch  and  ward  to-day  !  unheeding  this, 
Thou  may'st  be  led  astray  from  endless  bliss ; 
Keep  watch  and  ward  to-day  !  lest  fear  and  doubt 
Should  tempt  thee  not  to  pray,  "  My  sins  wash  out." 

Keep  watch  and  ward  to-day  !  for  who  may  tell 
How  soon  will  peal  for  thee  the  tolling  knell ; 
Keep  watch  and  ward  to-day  ! — pray — ever  pray  ! 
Within  Thy  kingdom,  Lord,  Remember  me  ! 

Help  us  to  watch  and  pray,  Saviour  divine  ! 
And  make  us,  day  by  day — thine,  only  thine ; 
And  when  our  work  is  done — Our  Saviour  be, 
We  each  would  pray — "  Oh,  Lord  !  Remember  me." 


jy8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


I  Have  Lived  to  See  this  Day. 

AND  I  have  lived  to  see  this  day  ! 
When  thrones  and  kingdoms  fall, 
And  golden  scepters  melt  away 

Before  a  nation's  call  ; 
When  error  trembles  'neath  the  blaze 

Of  pure  celestial  light ; 
And  truth  is  flinging  out  her  rays 
To  banish  pagan  night. 

This  wild  and  stormy  thirst  for  change, 

This  reckless,  party  strife; 
This  grasp  for  gold,  so  passing  strange, 

Seems  all  with  meaning  rife  ; 
It  is,  indeed,  a  fearful  time, 

Our  thoughts  seem  double-wing'd ; 
And  earth  seems  one  vast  pantomime, 

With  her  lyre  treble-string'd. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  179 


Reply  to  the  Following. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  soon  I  may  be  the  bearer  of  messages  to 
your  loved  ones  in  Heaven." — Dr.  W.  W.  Bancroft. 

WILL  you  bear  to  them  a  message, 
Those  my  loved  whoVe  gone  before ; 
When  you've  made  the  mystic  passage, 
And  have  reach'd  the  deathless  shore  ? 

Then,  pray  tell  them  I  am  waiting 

In  the  pelting  storms  below; 
And  my  heart  is  almost  breaking, 

With  its  load  of  untold  woe. 

Tell  him,  him,  my  loved  and  faithful, 
I  have  suffered,  toil'd  and  wept ; 

Of  the  world  become  distrustful, 
Since  he  laid  him  down  and  slept. 

Tell  dear  Aura  how  we  love  her, 
How  we  miss  her  gentle  smile; 

How  her  voice  is  sounding  ever, 
'Midst  earth's  turmoil,  care  and  toil. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

And,  dear  Allie,  darling  Allie, 

Gather'd  with  her  in  Christ's  fold  ; 

From  this  dark  and  stormy  valley, 
From  its  tempest,  stern  and  cold. 

And  that  son,  so  sweet  and  gentle, 
Gather'd  first  to  worlds  on  high, 

Loving  Cassius,  kind  and  playful, 

Oh  !  that  such  sweet  forms  should  die  ! 

Tell  them — all — to  gather  round  us, 
As  we  thread  the  thorny  way, 

Up  to  scenes  so  pure  and  boundless, 
Up  to  everlasting  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  181 


Passing  Away. 


THE  flower  on  the  stem, — 
The  royal  diadem, 
The  streams  we  love, 
The  stars  above 
Are  passing  away. 

The  palace  and  the  cot, 

The  realm  of  love  and  thought, 

May  never  stay ; 

Things  of  to-day 
Are  passing  away. 

The  wind  that  whistles  by, 
The  cloud  upon  the  sky, 

The  brilliant  moon, 

The  setting  sun, 
Are  passing  away. 

The  hill,  the  vale,  the  plain, 
The  vast  and  sweeping  main, 
The  forest  shade, 
The  mountain  grade, 
Are  passing  away. 


182  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


All  things  with  life  and  breath, 
Even  the  sting  of  death, 

The  dying  bed, 

Its  fear  and  dread, 
Are  passing  away. 

Time  in  its  ceaseless  flight, 
Its  power  and  its  might, 

Its  dawning  day, 

Its  twilight  gray 
Are  passing  away. 

The  firmament  above, 
With  all  its  wealth  of  love, 

Its  vaulted  height, 

Its  halls  of  light, 
Are  passing  away. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  183 


Drifting  no  Longer. 

I  SAW  a  lov'd  one  drifting  out  from  shore, 
My  faith  stood  still,  beyond  I  saw  no  more ; 
But,  as  for  him,  he  knew  "  whom  he  believed ;" 
Yet  when  his  own  came  up,  too  much  aggrieved, 
I  said,  look  heavenward! 
For  darkness  paved  my  way. 

I  did  not  see 
The  hand  that  held  the  rod, 

But  heard  him  say 
•*  I've  perfect  confidence  in  God." 

And  then  I  knew  his  Pilot  was  the  Lord, 
That  he  had  proved  Him  faithful  to  His  word; 
That  not  for  self  bore  death  a  poison'd  dart, 
But  for  his  lov'd,  the  widow'd,  orphan'd  heart ; 

I  said,  look  heavenward  ! 

God  will  take  care  of  us! 
I  saw  not,  then, 

The  hand  that  held  the  rod, 
But  heard  him  say 

"  I've  perfect  confidence  in  God." 

Drifting  no  longer,  God  was  guiding  home ; 
My  orphan'd  days  came  gliding  from  the  tomb : 
Yet  I  was  sure — they  told  me  he  would  live  ; 
Why  doubt?  when  love  whispered,  "  Only  believe  ?* 
I  said,   This  cannot  be! 


1 84  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Darkness  had  draped  my  way, 

I  could  not  see 
The  shepherd's  staff  and  rod  ; 

Nor  hear  him  say, 
But  knew  he  rested  with  his  God. 

Ask  ye  about  the  way  the  good  man  trod  ? 
Go  to  the  fount — the  living  word  of  God ; 
Drink  from  its  waters — drink — and  ever  live; 
Trust  in  a  Saviour — trust  Him,  yea, believe. 

Look  ye  heavenward, 

Then  light  may  pave  your  way, 
And  ye  may  see 

The  hand  that  holds  the  rod, 
And  in  death's  day 

Have  perfect  confidence  in  God. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  185 


A  Wreath. 


A  WREATH  for  the  young  and  lovely ! 
A  wreath  for  the  early  dead ! 
A  wreath  for  the  brow  of  beauty, 
Laid  low  in  her  turfy  bed. 

A  wreath  for  the  youthful  pillow ! 

And  weave  it  with  sorrow's  thread ; 
And  twine  the  cypress  and  willow, 

To  droop  o'er  her  lowly  bed. 

A  wreath  for  the  lov'd  and  loving ! 

So  early  summon'd  to  try 
The  slumber  that  knows  no  waking, 

Till  the  last  trump  rends  the  sky. 

We  twine,  in  a  world  of  sorrow, 

A  wreath  for  the  spirit-land ; 
But  know  that  its  gloomy  shadow 

Ne'er  lights  on  that  harping  band. 


186  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


A  Lost  Moment. 

FROM  th'  calends  of  many,  a  bright  one  had  fled, 
I  saw  not  its  winglets,  I  heard  not  its  tread ; 
But  gath'ring  up  moments  I  found,  to  my  grief, 
That  one  out  of  many  had  gone  like  a  thief. 

Oh,  tell  me,  ye  wild  winds  that  frolic  about, 
Have  yc  the  stray  moment  that  fled  from  my  cot? 
'Twas  lit  by  the  sun's  ray, 'twas  fann'd  by  your  breath, 
And  bathed  in  the  dewdrops  that  lay  on  the  heath. 

It  bore  on  its  winglets  the  charge  of  neglect, 
Can  ye,  from  myriads,  this  lost  one  detect? 
It  fled  in  the  morning  e're  earth  was  astir, 
And  for  aught  that  I  know  may  flee  evermore ! 

"  Your  fugitive  Moment  we  did  not  detect, 
But  the  strong  arm  of  God  was  there  to  protect ; 
You'll  find  it  reserved  in  Eternity's  urn, 
When   the  stars  fall  from  heav'n,  and  earth's  on  a 
burn." 

Ye  crystalline  dewdrops  that  bathed  my  lost  prize, 
Oh,  say,  does  it  wander  beneath  the  broad  skies? 
Shall  I  overtake  it,  if  fleet  be  the  chase? 
Shall  I  find  my  lost  prize  at  the  end  of  th'  race? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  187 


"  Tis  garnered  far  hence  on  Eternity's  shore, 
As  a  part  of  God's  plan  we  cannot  explore  ; 
Although  we've  not  seen  it,  we  know  it  is  there 
With  its  charge  of  neglect — O,  mortal,  beware  !" 

Oh,  say,  dazzling  sun  that  accompanied  my  prize, 
In  what  secret  nook  my  poor  lost  Moment  strays? 
It  bore  off  a  blessing,  too  pure  for  my  eyes, 
It  was  mine,  but  alas !  it  pass'd  to  the  skies! 

I  would  that  the  blessing  were  mine  once  again, 
That  lay  on  its  pathway,  but  fled  with  its  train  ; 
They  both  fled  together,  they  sped  on  before, 
They're  gone  from  me  now — will  they  be  mine  no 
more  ? 

"  Mourn  not  for  the  Moment  that  cometh  not  back, 
But  watch  for  the  many  that  lay  on  thy  track ; 
Each  one  has  a  blessing,  if  wisely  secured, 
But  that  missing  Moment  cannot  be  restored. 

"God  holds  in  His  hand  all  the  moments  of  time, 
Whether  lad'n  with  blessings  or  loaded  with  crime ; 
To  trace  the  Lost  Moment  let  faith  raise  her  eye 
To  the  Omniscient  God,  the  Sovereign  Most  High, 

"  The  blessing  it  'reft  thee  remains  thine  again, 
In  the  region  above,  where  worketh  no  sin; 
Oh,  lean  thou  on  Him,  who  in  kindness  and  love 
So  gently  and  sweetly  led  Aura  above." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


God  Gilds  the  Fretting  Tide. 

HEAVEN  seems  drifting  so  near  to  our  earth, 
The  foldings  of  its  gates,  it's  golden  girth, 
Shutting  the  evil  out,  the  good  within, 
Seem  calling  to  our  souls,  "  Come  home  from  sin  ! 

When  darkest  is  the  road,  a  flake  of  love 
Sifts  downward  on  our  way  from  courts  above  ; 
•  And  when  life's  turbid  stream  frets  darkly  on, 
God  gilds  its  fretting  tide  with  heaven's  dawn. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  189 


Wake,  Brother,  Wake! 


WAKE,  brother,  wake!  it  is  time  to  be  stirring, 
Speed  to  thy  post  and  the  task  of  to-day ; 
Thy  Saviour  calls  thee  to  deeds  bold  and  daring, 
Up  and  be  doing,  as  faith  leads  the  way. 

On,  brother,  on  !  heaven's  day-star  is  rising, 

See  its  bright  beams  floating  up  through  the  mist ; 

Shaded  by  clouds,  all  obstructions  defying, 

It  bursts  its  dark  fetters — outsweeps  the  blast. 

Watch,  brother,  watch  !  'tis  a  time  of  temptation, 
Weary  and  care-worn,  surrounded  by  foes; 

Earth  will  not  aid  in  thy  deep  tribulation — 

Watch  !  midst  thy  care,  and  thy  toil,  and  thy  woes. 


i9o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Judgments  of  God. 


THY  judgments  are  abroad,  Great  God  J 
A  vast  and  mighty  train, 
We  bow  beneath  the  chast'ning  rod 
That  numbers  out  our  slain. 

There's  war  and  death  within  our  land, 
Our  homes  are  fraught  with  fear — 

Oh  !  turn  again  Thy  chast'ning  hand 
Our  wail  of  anguish  hear, 

We  mourn  the  guilt  that  call'd  the  rod, 

And  laid  our  prospects  low ; 
Oh,  turn  us  to  Thee,  mighty  God ! 

And  stay  the  dreadful  blow, 

Our  wealth  and  fame  we've  made  our  trust, 

Forgot  God's  holy  laws, 
Trampled  the  captive  in  the  dust, 

Despis'd  the  stranger's  cause. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  i9I 

We've  rear'd  a  bulwark  with  our  pride, 

And  call'd  ourselves  our  own, 
Disdain'd  the  claims  of  Christ  who  died, 

And  sought  a  fading  crown. 

Forgive  our  foolishness,  oh,  God ! 

Our  crimes  of  heart  and  hand  ; 
And  stay,  once  more,  thy  righteous  rod — 

Oh,  spare  our  guilty  land. 


i92  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"Tarry  Not  in  All  the  Plain." 


TARRY  not— the  plain  is  sultry, 
Shadow  lies  not  there  to-day, 
Gird  thee  for  a  longer  journey : 
Onward  !  trav'ler,  press  thy  way. 

Tarry  not — the  sun  is  flinging 
Scorching  beams  upon  thy  way ; 

There's  no  music  round  thee  ringing ; 
Haste,  thee !  trav'ler,  on  thy  way. 

Haste  thee,  haste  thee,  weary  trav'ler, 

"  Tarry  not  in  all  the  plain  ;" 
Mountain-heights  before  to-morrow, 

Weary  trav'ler,  thou  must  gain. 

Tis  thy  Father,  weary  trav'ler, 
Bids  thee  onward  in  thy  flight; 

On  his  holy  mount  forever, 
Trav'ler,  there  will  be  no  night. 

When  is  done  this  day  of  sorrow, 

Full  of  toil,  with  danger  rife, 
Thou  wilt  change  the  death-wing'd  arrow 

For  the  everlasting  life. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


193 


The  Song  Unsung. 

A  SWAYING  harp  on  a  willow  swung, 
And  its  chords  gave  back  a  sigh ; 
And  we  paused  to  hear  The  Song  Unsung, 

Through  the  ages  hasting  by : 
But  it  was  hid  in  the  lives  of  those 
Who  had  lived,  and  loved,  and  died, 
And  the  song  remained  unsung. 

I've  dreamed  of  that  song  when  in  far  away, 
Have  searched  for  the  hidden  scroll, 

Have  tried  to  warble  each  changeful  lay 
In  the  depths  of  my  sad  soul : 

But  it  had  been  hush'd  to  mortal  man 

Ere  his  sinful  race  began : 

So  the  song  remained  unsung. 

But  up  in  that  world  of  endless  day, 
When  the  darkened  vail  is  rent ; 

Up  where  the  eternal  glories  play, 
And  all  holy  things  are  blent ; 

The  angels  around  the  great  white  throne 

Will  panse  on  their  trembling  lyres, 
And  wait  for  The  Song  Unsung. 


I94  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


And  the  ransomed  host,  whose  faith  had  clung 

To  the  Saviour  and  His  cross, 
Will  tune  their  harps  to  The  Song  Unsung, 

To  the  new  eternal  song  ; 
For  none  but  the  tongues  of  trembling  faith 
Can  sing  of  redeeming  love ; 
And  through  the  vaulted  heavens  will  peal 
The  song  until  then,  unsung. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  195 


Neither  Toiling,  Neither  Spinning. 

"YTEITHER  toiling,  neither  spinning, 
-Li    Type  of  silent,  tender  faith  ; 
With  its  queenly  beauty  winning 
Ev'ry  trav'ler  on  life's  path. 

With  its  cup  of  ingrain  tissue 
Lifted  ever  toward  the  light ; 

Always  waiting  for  the  rain-dew 
That  descends  ere  early  night 

Honor'd  by  our  precious  Saviour, 

Emblem  of  a  soul  at  rest 
In  the  love  of  Christ  forever, 

Ever  resting  in  His  rest. 

From  the  lily  of  the  valley 

I  may  gain  a  lesson  free ; 
If  God  careth  for  the  lily, 

He  will  surely  care  for  me. 


196  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Life-Scenes  are  Checkered. 


^HERE'S  a  golden  link  in  earthly  life, 
1    A  calm,  bright  spot,  and  a  field  of  strife  ; 
A  brilliant  dawn  for  the  waking  eyes, 
An  iron-gray  in  the  evening  skies. 

There  are  blithesome  days,  and  days  of  gloom, 
A  banquet  hall  and  a  lonely  home  ; 
A  full-born  trust,  and  a  trembling  fear, 
The  summer-bloom,  and  the  winter  drear. 

There  are  joys  that  come,  and  joys  that  go, 
The  summer  rain  and  the  winter  snow ; 
The  springing  grass  and  the  withering  leaf, 
The  morning  hope  and  the  noontide  grief 

There  are  days  of  pain  and  days  of  care, 
There  are  days  of  clouds  and  days  all  fair ; 
A  weary  night  when  the  soul  weeps  on ; 
And  a  night  all  cradled  in  heav'n's  dawn. 

There's  offer'd  to  each  on  our  rolling  globe 
A  home  above  and  a  marriage  robe ; 
Oh,  blest  are  they  to  whom  is  given 
A  seat  at  the  marriage  feast  of  heaven. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  197 


On  the  Burning  of  the  Steamboat  Lexington. 

January  i3th,  1840.     One  hundred  and  forty  lives  lost  in  Long 
Island  Sound. 

HIBERNAL  breezes  swept  along  the  shore, 
Now  howling  loud,  now  hush'd  to  gentle  moans ; 
Their  very  sighs  seemed  fraught  with  magic  power, 
And  startling  terrors  mingled  with  the  tones. 

The  sun  withdrew — sternly  approach'd  the  night, 
And  darkness  boldly  flung  her  wing  on  high, 

Save  where  the  moon  roll'd  her  broad  car  of  light, 
Or  distant  planets  wander'd  o'er  the  sky. 

Behold  a  wanderer,  on  the  restless  wave, 

Bears  proudly  on  her  treasures,  rich  in  souls, 

Light-skimming  o'er  the  dark  and  liquid  grave, 
Her  hissing  breath  in  wild  disorder  rolls. 

Friendship  with  friendship  moved  among  her  throng, 
Heart  link'd  to  heart  blended  their  joyous  cheer, 

The  gay  were  there,  the  feeble  and  the  strong, 
Oh,  who  could  deem  danger  was  prowling  near. 

But  hark  !  what  sounds  float  on  the  heaving  tide  ? 

Not  those  of  joy,  nor  yet  the  tones  of  mirth  ; 
Slowly  upon  the  ice-clad  surf  they  ride, 

And  echoing  hills  rehearse  the  tale  to  earth. 


198  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"  Fire  !  fire  !  "  from  the  horror-stricken  crowd, 
In  accents  wild,  rose  on  the  troubled  air  ; 

The  rolling  billow  weaves  the  funeral  shroud, 
For  those  who  linger  o'er  her  in  despair. 

On  to  the  shore  !  brave  comrades,  hurry  on — 
Fly  to  the  boats,  and  let  them  o'er  be  thrown, 

All,  #//are  sunk,  the  life-boat,  too,  is  gone,: 
On,  gallant  boat,  before  death's  work  is  done. 

But  look  again,  the  engine  plays  no  more, 
And  death  is  culling  flowers  from  the  wave  ; 

Fast  over-board  the  trembling  victims  pour, 
To  exchange  the  fire  for  a  sea-wash'd  grave. 

But  now  the  flames  in  deepening  splendor  rise, 
Black  clouds  of  smoke  in  majesty  ascend, 

And  faith's  strong  prayers  arise  amid  the  cries, 
Which  from  that  steamer_make  the  heavens  rend. 

Yet  upward  rolls  the  fire  in  fearless  might, 
Its  brilliant  plume  fast  mounting  to  the  sky; 

Darker,  still  darker,  gathers  round  the  night, 
Mournful  and  wilder  rolls  each  restless  eye. 

All  hope  is  flown,  the  deep  receives  her  prize, 
Form  after  form  has  pillowed  there  his  head  ; 

Forever  rent  are  earthly  friendship  ties, 
As,  one  by  one,  they  mingle  with  the  dead. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  199 


The  work  is  done — the  noble,  fair  and  brave, 
Who  lately  trod  the  halls  of  life  and  love, 

Have  found  alike,  a  dark  and  watery  grave, 
Unknown,  save  to  the  Watchful  Eye  above. 

Weep,  Pity,  weep,  for  those,  the  aged,  the  young, 
Mourn,  Science,  from  thy  wreath  a  flower  is  torn, 

Wake,  Minstrel — lo !  a  lover  of  thy  song 
Is  lulled  to  sleep  by  ocean's  mournful  tone. 

Sigh,  Genius — for  a  noble  star  hath  set, 

Oh  !  weep  for  Lexington  and  her  lost  band ; 

Cast  o'er  her  dark  repose  one  sad  regret, 
Record  her  memory  with  affection's  hand. 

Patriot,  mourn  a  brother  from  thy  side 

Has  pass'd,  no  more  in  freedom's  halls  to  move; 

Fold  to  thy  heart  more  strongly  those,  who,  tried, 
Still  stand  defenders  of  the  land  we  love. 

Thou  careless  voyager  on  life's  stormy  sea, 
List !  from  that  ruin  comes  a  voice  to  thee ; 

Turn,  Sinner,  turn  !  for  death  is  on  the  wing, 
And  ere  thou  art  aware,  may  cut  life's  string. 

Where  will  thy  soul  find  rest,  if  unprepared, 

Thou  goest  to  meet  the  vengeance  thou  hast  dared  ? 

How  stand  before  that  God,  whose  burning  ire 
Can  kindle  in  thy  soul,  eternal  fire  ? 


200  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


God  will  Provide. 


WHO  draws  from  his  God,  the  strength  of  his  life, 
Is  safe  from  all  harm,  in  tumult  and  strife; 
Dark  days  may  be  his,  foes  walk  by  his  side, 
His  Saviour  is  near — his  God  will  provide. 

His  bark  may  be  foundered  upon  the  strand, 
And  his  lot  be  cast  in  a  stranger's  land ; 
No  kindred  be  near,  no  friend  at  his  side, 
His  Saviour  will  shield — his  God  will  provide. 

If  fig-tree  ne'er  bloom,  the  olive-tree  fail, 
Wither  the  herbage,  the  dew  leave  the  vale  ; 
Though  famine  stalk  forth,  destruction  draw  near, 
His  God  will  provide,  he's  nothing  to  fear. 

Though  dark,  chilly  waves  roll  over  the  path, 
The  sky  become  brass,  the  storm  rage  in  wrath; 
Kindly  his  Father  stoops  down  from  above, 
And  wraps  around  him,  his  mantle  of  love. 

And  when  his  life's  path  dips  down  to  the  vale 
Rough  rolls  the  billow,  cold  blows  the  gale ; 
Dark  and  forbidding  the  measureless  tide, 
His  Saviour  is  near — his  God  is  his  guide. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  201 


Rainbow  in  the  Evening. 

BENDING  o'er  the  field  and  flood, 
Bending  o'er  the  dusty  road, 
Bending  o'er  the  homes  of  men, 
Slept  that  rainbow  once  again ; 
Slept  that  bow  of  colors  seven 
On  the  misty  web  of  heaven. 

Standing  on  the  golden  sheaves, 
Dipping  into  trembling  leaves, 
Painting  all  that's  bright  and  fair 
On  the  concave  stretch  of  air, 
Rests  that  rainbow,  pledge  of  love, 
From  our  God  who  reigns  above. 

Wreathed  upon  the  brow  of  night, 
Woven  of  the  gleaming  light, 
Dropping  tracery,  hue  by  hue, 
As  the  sun  its  light  withdrew ; 
Till  from  view  of  mortal  eye 
Swept  that  rainbow  from  the  sky. 

And  that  bow  of  perfect  form, 
Clasped  upon  the  evening  storm, 
Speaks  from  every  shade  of  light 
Of  a  world  without  a  blight ; 
Bids  us  look  beyond  death's  flood, 
Where  no  earthly  storms  intrude. 


202  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Memory  of  the  Past. 

THERE'S  many  a  hopeful  morrow 
That  lingered  on  the  way, 
Till  the  watching  child  of  sorrow 
Grew  tired  and  passed  away. 

Oh,  how  many  waiting  spirits 
Have  watched  the  hours  away, 

While  the  onward,  flying  minutes 
Fail  to  bring  the  morrow's  ray. 

There  are  moments  in  a  life-time 
.Whose  memory  never  dies ; 

There  are  scenes  too  holy  and  sublime 
To  fade  from  spirit-eyes. 

Too  holy  and  sublime  those  scenes, 
We've  met  them  on  the  way ; 

Too  near  the  everlasting  plains 
To  fade  from  memory's  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  203 


Who  Can  Find  Out  God? 


WHEN  earth's  corner-stone  into  being  sprang, 
And  the  seraphine  songs  through  the  heavens 

rang, 

When  the  morning  stars  in  their  glitt'ring  maze 
Joined  the  glad  hymn  to  the  Ancient  of  Days ; 
God  pinn'd  earth's  foundation,  To  what  ?  Oh  man  ? 
Oh,  say,  has  thy  wisdom  fathomed  the  plan  ? 

A  mite  on  the  point  of  a  turning  sphere, 
Child  of  mortality,  what  know'st  thou  here  ? 
From  earth's  corner-stone  to  its  farthest  verge 
This  question  is  borne  on  the  heaving  surge, 
By  searching,  oh,  man,  Who  can  find  out  God? 
The  Incomprehensible,  Infinite  God? 


204  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Saturday  Night. 

O  ATURDAY  night— the  week  is  ended, 
U  What  has  it  borne  to  the  upper  sky  ? 
What  left  undone  that  might  have  been  mended  ? 
Or  what  pass'd  heedlessly  by? 

'Saturday  night — the  rain  is  falling, 

Falling  as  then,  so  chilly  and  slow; 
Up  from  the  past  low  echoes  are  stealing 

Echoes  of  sadness  and  wo. 

Saturday  night — and  oh  !  so  lonely, 

Just  as  it  was  those  years  ago, 
When  death  stepped  o'er  my  threshold  so  sternly, 

And  call'd  our  lov'd  one  to  go. 

Saturday  night — 'tis  all  so  dreary, 

The  clock  ticks  on  as  the  clock  tick'd  then ; 

So  lonely  and  sad,  weeping  and  weary, 
That  night  image  comes  again. 

Saturday  night — and  it  comes  again 
Through  the  vista  of  sorrow  and  fear ; 

Oh,  death,  unto  me  how  sad  thou  hast  been, 
To  all  is  thy  message  drear. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  205 

Saturday  night — what  sorrow  and  woe 
Thou  hast  borne  on  thy  dark,  ebon  wing; 

Four  forms  are  with  me  wherever  I  go, 
Four  voices  around  me  ring. 

Saturday  night — then  a  Sabbath  comes — 

The  Sabbath  of  blest  eternity — 
When  the  trumpet  calls  thine  own  to  their  homes, 

Dear  Saviour,  "Remember  me? 


206  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


Gems  over  which  Earth  Walls. 

DEATH  has  cull'd  full  many  a  flow'r 
From  the  ocean's  heaving  surge  ; 
Sending  through  earth's  hall  and  bower 
Many  a  sad  and  wailing  dirge. 

Many  a  dirge  that  waileth  onward, 
Many  sighs  from  hearts  oppress'd  ; 

Many  a  longing  for  the  green  sward, 
Where  the  weary  may  find  rest, 

Gems  of  richest,  purest  luster, 
Far  outshining  earthly  dross  ; 

Gems  round  which  our  life-hopes  cluster, 
Can  such  gems  become  a  loss  ? 

Far  beneath  the  ocean's  surging, 
Far  beneath  her  bending  sails  ; 

Far  beneath  the  earth's  sad  dirging 
Lie  the  gems  o'er  which  she  wails. 

But  from  out  that  grave  of  surging, 
From  that  ever-moaning  bed  ; 

In  the  resurrection  morning 
Shall  arise  the  ocean-dead. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  207 


"1  Know  that  my  Redeemer  Lives." 

— HORACE  GREELEY. 


HUSH  !  speak  but  softly  now,  let  no  harsh  thought 
Weave  for  that  marble  brow  one  unjust  blot ; 
He  has  left  our  mortal  road,  his  race  is  run, 
His  work  is  now  with  God,  with  thee — 'tis  done. 

A  household  word  his  name,  it  will  not  rot, 
Forever  bright  will  shine  some  golden  thought ; 
And  if  a  fault  was  his,  beneath  the  sun, 
My  brother,  blot  it  out !  and  write,  Well  done ! 

And  I  will  say,   Well done  !  he  who  receives 
The  faith,  to  "  know  that  his  Redeemer  lives," 
Hath  gained  a  prize  no  power  can  take  away : 
Faith  leans  upon  her  God — he  is  safe  to-day. 


2o8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"  The  Angel  of  the  Lord 

Descended  from  heaven,  and  came  and  roll'd  back  the  stone  from 
the  door  and  sat  upon  it." 

MIDNIGHT  had  pass'd,  the  stars  of  heav'n  went 
out, 

When  from  the  realms  of  everlasting  day, 
Array 'd  in  light,  with  burning  luster  fraught, 
A  heav'nly  stranger  bent  his  earthward  way.  * 

Not  to  the  halls,  with  wealth  and  honor  fraught, 
Nor  to  the  monarch  on  his  golden  throne  ; 

But  by  a  garden  near  Mount  Calv'ry's  foot, 

He  paus'd — where  Christ  in  death's  embrace  lay 
down. 

Back  from  the  tomb  the  mighty  stone  is  roll'd— 
And   Christ    the   Saviour  bursts   death's  binding 
chain  ; 

Shaking  the  pillars  of  our  guilt-stain'd  world, 
He  rises  to  complete  salvation's  plan. 

Yes,  Christ  arose — death's  binding  bands  unlock, 
And  forth  to  life  the  conq'ror  leads  His  host ; 

He  is  our  hope,  our  resurrection  rock, 

In  Him  we'll  trust,  of  Him  we'll  make  our  boast. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  209 


Lady,  Pause! 


LADY,  pause  !  that  solemn  vow 
Binds  thee  to  a  life  of  woe ; 
Now,  or  never,  take  thy  stand — 
Free  of  heart  and  free  of  hand. 

Once  that  solemn  vow  be  said, 
Thou  art  his,  to  whom  be  wed ; 
Be  it  long  or  short  that  life, 
Live  it  through  devoid  of  strife. 

o 

Be  he  base  ?  'tis  thine  to  win 
From  the  paths  of  shame  and  sin ; 
This — the  yoke  that  thou  must  wear- 
This — the  scourging,  thou  must  bear. 

Lady,  pause — that  vow  will  bind 
Heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind; 
Death  alone  can  hold  the  key 
Which  unlocks  that  unity. 

Lady,  pause — for  life  or  death, 
Thou  art  plighting  thy  fond  faith ; 
Look  thy  portion  in  the  face ! 
Drunkard's  bride,  and  dark  disgrace. 


2io  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Speak  Gently. 


SPEAK  in  the  sweetest,  gentlest  strains  ! 
That  heart  has  met  some  bitter  shock ; 
Thou  mayst  not  scan  the  hidden  pains 

Which  o'er  those  heart-cords  reel  and  rock. 

Speak  gently,  very  gently,  then  ! 

Sad  strokes  have  been,  if  reason  fail ; 
Thou  knowest  not  how  soon  thy  brain 

Beneath  some  sudden  blow  may  quail. 

We're  not  our  own,  God  holds  the  key 

To  every  heart,  and  every  will ; 
We  hold,  with  feeble  grasp  to-day, 

The  page  for  other  hands  to  fill. 

Speak  gently  to  that  aching  heart, 

There's  been  enough  of  life's  stern  words ; 

Of  cutting  scorn,  of  pointed  dart, 
To  sunder  reason's  fragile  cords. 

Speak  gently,  very  gently,  then  ! 

THY  life  is  measur'd  by  a  span  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soothe  the  heart  of  pain 

Unless  thy  task  be  soon  begun. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  211 


Speak  gently  ;  in  the  judgment  day 
That  soul  may  shine  a  jewel  rare  ; 

That  soul  which  on  life's  pathway  lay 
Bereft  of  reason's  guiding  star. 

Speak  gently,  gently  !  Christ,  thy  light, 
Hold's  reason  in  His  wise  control ; 

Drives  from  its  portals  darken'd  night, 
And  heals  the  blindness  of  the  soul. 

Go,  learn  of  Him,  that  blessed  One, 
Who  gave  to  reason's  guiding  light 

A  higher,  richer,  sweeter  tone 

Than  sweep  the  chords  of  reason's  flight. 


212  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Thy  Father  Knows  Best. 

SAD,  weeping  heart,  be  still ! 
Thy  Father  knoweth  best ; 
Yield  to  His  loving  will, 
And  learn  His  high  behest. 

Although  thou  dost  not  know 
Why  God  has  thee  bereft ; 

Where  everlasting  waters  flow 
The  sadden'd  veil  will  lift. 

Thy  faith  is  sorely  tried, 
Distrustful,  weeping  one ; 

Thy  well  beloved  have  died, 
And  earth  is  sad  and  lone. 

The  conflict  soon  will  cease, 
The  trial  soon  be  o'er ; 

And  friends  and  endless  peace 
Will  greet  thee  on  that  shore. 

Then  dry  each  falling  tear  : 
Thy  Father  knows  the  best ; 

He  gave  thy  mission  here — 
Tis  He  appoints  thy  rest. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  213 


Ancient  City  of  Petra. 

"  Ancient  Petra  is  situated  in  Mount  Seir,  and  is  supposed  to 
have  been  founded  by  Esau.  It  is  hewn  out  of  solid  rock,  and  is 
surrounded  by  the  mountain  on  all  sides.  • 

"  Its  sculptured  temples,  tombs,  dwelling-houses,  walls,  rampart 
and  theatre,  still  remain  as  if  built  but  yesterday. 

" '  Nothing  can  be  finer,'  says  a  modern  traveler,  '  than  the 
immense  rocky  rampart,  which  encloses  the  city.  Strong,  firm, 
immovable  as  nature  itself,  it  seems  to  deride  the  walls  of  cities 
and  the  puny  fortifications  of  skillful  engineers. 

" '  The  entrance  is  now  occupied  by  a  stream  of  water,  which, 
at  this  time,  is  so  swollen  as  to  fill  the  whole  space  to  the  walls 
above.  The  summits  are  wild  and  broken.  A  strong  ray  of  light 
is  thrown  down  and  illuminates,  with  the  blaze  of  day,  the  frightful 
chasm  below.' 

"  This  city,  for  more  than  a  thousand  years,  was  lost  to  the  Chris- 
tian world,  and  until  its  discovery  by  Burchardt,  in  1812,  except 
to  the  wandering  Bedouins,  its  very  site  was  unknown. 

"  The  fulfillment  of  the  awful  predictions  of  Jeremiah  49  :  13, 16, 
seem  to  have  come  to  pass  in  a  very  mysterious  manner. 

"  Little  is  known  of  this  great  and  proud  city,  but  it  is  generally 
believed  that  the  race  which  inhabited  it  has  become  extinct." 

AND  thou  art  here,  like  one  emerged  from  naught. 
Displaying  on  thy  front  the  trace  of  thought ; 
Thy  sculptur'd  temples,  tow'ring  in  the  air, 
Speak  but  the  glory  that  lies  buried  there. 


2i4  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Oh  !  could  we  read  the  scroll  of  hidden  woes, 
Which  o'er  thy  fate  the  vale  of  myst'ry  throws, 
Could  we  but  pierce  the  vista  of  the  past, 
We'd  teach  our  hearts  to  sigh  it  to  the  blast. 

Thy  form  embedded  in  a  rocky  mount, 
Bearing  within  its  breast  a  rolling  fount, 
Thy  Portico,  Corridor,  Pediment, 
Tell  us  dark  judgments  on  thy  lords  were  sent 

Thy  temples,  too,  respond  the  awful  tale, 
As  the  light  footfall  dies  along  the  aisle ; 
Thy  theatre  all  desolate  and  lone, 
Throws  o'er  thy  dust  a  dread  terrific  gloom. 

We  trace  thy  boundVy  in  the  lasting  rock, 
But  dark  enigmas  all  our  efforts  mock ; 
We  tread  thy  halls,  ascend  thy  spiral  stairs, 
Still  black  arcanum  on  the  prospect  glares. 

Thy  tombs  are  open.     Wherefore  is  it  so  ? 
Have  their  pale  inmates  fled  this  world  below? 
Or  has  their  dust  assembled  in  thy  urn, 
There  to  await  the  resurrection  morn  ? 

Here  the  warm  sunbeams  on  thy  portals  play, 
There,  brooding  heights  exclude  the  light  of  day; 
Here,  crumbling  ruins  tell  thy  mighty  fall, 
There  the  bright  rainbow  sleeps  upon  thy  wall. 


TEE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  215 


The  Oleander  lives  above  thy  tombs, 
And  the  wild  fig-tree  o'er  thy  rampart  blooms  ; 
The  creeping  ivy  throws  o'er  thee  her  arms, 
As  if  to  shield  thee  from  impending  storms0 

Wild  grandeur  reigns  above  thy  peering  height; 
Where  mounts  the  eagle  in  his  heav'nward  flight; 
Now,  yawning  chasms  meet  the  wanderer's  eye, 
Now,  rugged  cliffs  stand,  leaning  'gainst  the  sky. 

Oblivion  o'er  thy  hist'ry  spreads  her  wing, 
Thou  lone,  mysterious,  desolated  thing; 
We  seek  in  vain — thy  records  are  no  more, 
Which  might,  to  light,  thy  awful  fate  restore. 

We  ask  thy  rampart ;  its  remaining  height, 
Rears  its  huge  form  in  fell  derision's  light ; 
"Days  were,"  it  said,  "when  lo!  I  guarded  hosts, 
But  how  they  fell,  past  time  the  myst'ry  boasts." 

We  ask  thy  temples,  but  their  empty  seats, 
Our  wondering  gaze,  in  solemn  sadness,  meets, 
41  Mortal,  beware  !"  the  sounding  echo  cries, 
"  The  host  that  trod  here,  now  in  ruin  lies." 

We  ask  thy  stream,  What  of  its  bathing  crowd? 
But  hark  !  it  hurries  on  in  murmurs  loud  ; 
41  Time  was,  this  entrance  throng'd  with  living  dust, 
Gay,  prattling,  joyous,  now  forever  hush'd." 


2 1 6  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


We  ask  thy  tombs,  but  from  their  sable  walls, 
Echo  is  ringing  to  our  waiting  calls, 
Where  sleep  thy  dead  ?  lost  Petra,  tell  us  Where  ? 
Where  shall  we  seek  them  ?    Where,  Oh  !    tell   us 
Where  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  217 


"Jesus  Wept.55 


BACKWARD,  o'er  the  leaping  ages, 
1)  Backward,  through  their  darkest  gloom ; 
Guided  by  the  holy  pages, 
Stand  we  by  the  silent  tomb. 

All  the  lofty  hills  are  waking 

Echoes  of  a  mournful  strain  ; 
Whisp'ring  back  the  spirit-aching 

Of  a  sad  and  weeping  train. 

But  a  hush  is  on  the  weeper, 

And  a  hush  is  on  the  throng ; 
Silent  lay  the  breathless  sleeper, 

Heedless  of  the  dirging  song. 

Plainly  clad,  a  weary  pilgrim 

Slowly  climbs  the  rugged  steep ; 

Every  eye  is  fixed  upon  him, 

Save  the  eye,  then  closed  in  sleep.] 

Forms  and  faces  round  him  gather, 

At  his  feet  a  mourner  falls ; 
Pleading  not  for  that  dear  brother, 

Pent  within  those  rock-hewn  walls : 


2I8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


But  to  Him,  her  Lord  and  Master, 
Was  her  deepest  homage  sigh'd; 

Thought,  "If  tidings  had  gone  faster, 
Lord,  my  brother  had  not  died." 

There  he  stood — The  Precious  Healer, 

By  that  dark  and  silent  tomb  ; 
'Twas  for  such  as  that  sad  kneeler, 

He  had  left  His  Father's  home. 

But  a  gentle  shade  of  sadness, 
Through  the  congregation  crept ; 

When  in  tender,  loving  kindness 
Christ,  the  great  Redeemer,  wept. 

Then,  when  loved  and  loving  dear  ones, 
From  your  life-path  have  been  swept ; 

When  you  yearn  to  hear  those  sweet  tones, 
Oh,  remember,  "  Jesus  wept," 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  219 


Father,  Guide  Us. 


"DAT HER,  guide  us  day  by  day, 
JL    Wheresoe'er  our  pathway  lay  ; 
Teach  our  faith  to  lean  on  Thee, 
Father,  triune  Deity. 

When  the  lightning  cuts  the  sky, 
And  the  mutt'ring  storm  is  nigh  ; 
Father,  midst  its  clashing  strife, 
Lead  us  to  a  higher  life. 

Father,  lend  a  listening  ear, 
To  our  sorrow,  care  and  fear; 
Still  the  tempest,  calm  the  tide, 
Save  the  souls  for  whom  Christ  died. 

Father,  in  each  trying  hour, 

Shield  us  from  the  tempter's  power  ; 

Save  us  from  our  sinful  pride, 

Save  the  souls  for  whom  Christ  died. 


220  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Treasures  in  Heaven. 

"  Lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven,  where  neither  moth 
nor  rust  doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  do  not  break  through  nor 
steal."  Mathew  vi  :  20. 

'THERE  is  no  perfect  bliss  below, 
J.        No  life  devoid  of  pain  ; 
Here,  shadows  fall  where'er  we  go, 
And  losses  follow  gain. 

Man  plans  and  toils  for  glitt'ring  wealth, 
Through  snow  and  hail  and  rain  ; 

Death  tears  it  from  him  as  by  stealth, 
Nor  gives  it  back  again. 

But  there's  a  treasure  garnered  sure, 

Our  Saviour  holds  the  key  ; 
Trust  Him — He'll  be  thy  way — thy  door — 

He — thy  Eternity. 

Then,  tears  will  cease  beyond  this  globe, 

Thy  burdens  be  laid  down  ; 
No  moth  will  mar  thy  sacred  robe, 

No  rust  corrode  thy  crown. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  221 


Pause,  Christian! 

PAUSE,  Christian,  pause  !  the  gate  is  strait, 
Thou  canst  not  enter  there ; 
If  on  the  Lord  thou  dost  not  wait, 
In  faith  and  humble  prayer. 

The  way  is  narrow  !  Christian,  pause  ! 

The  world  can't  go  with  thee  ! 
God  so  decreed  it,  in  His  laws, 

That  thou  the  world  must  flee. 


222  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Too  Soon. 


TOO  soon !  you've  come  too  soon  ! 
Oh,  linger  yet  awhile  for  me  ! 
My  plans  not  met,  my  work  not  done, 
I  cannot  go  with  thee. 

Too  soon  !  the  sun  rides  high, 

And  the  flowers  are  blooming  gay ; 

No  cloud  is  painted  on  the  sky ; 
Go,  call  another  day  ! 

Too  soon !  I  yet  am  young, 

Have  hardly  number'd  out  my  teens; 
My  life  with  joyous  hopes  is  strung, 

No  storm  my  bark  careens. 

Too  soon  !  my  brow  is  fair, 

And  roses  bloom  upon  my  cheek ; 

In  my  light  spirit  lurks  no  care, 
The  canker-worm  to  speak. 

Too  soon  !  Oh,  yes,  too  soon 
To  affix  the  dark  seal  of  death  ! 

Suns  never  set  till  afternoon  ; 
O,  spare  me  life's  young  breath ! 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  223 


Aim  High. 

POINT  thine  arrow  toward  the  sun 
In  the  burning  sky ; 
Earthly  prizes  soon  are  gone, 
Point  thine  arrow  high ! 
Sister,  point  thine  arrow  high ! 

Point  thine  arrow  toward  the  sun ! 

Higher  yet,  higher  yet ! 
In  the  realm  of  God's  own  Son, 

Noble  aims  all  meet ; 

Sister  ooint  thine  arrow  high ! 

Point  thine  arrow  past  the  sun ! 

For  beyond  its  height, 
Is  a  kingdom  to  be  won, 

Full  of  pure  delight ; 

Sister,  point  thine  arrow  high! 


224  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


A  Lone  One's  Soliloquy. 


OH  !  SINCE  the  earth  has  gather'd  to  its  breast 
The  beautiful  and  cherish'd  of  my  band  ; 
My  very  being1  in  its  strange  unrest, 

Longs  for  communion  with  the  spirit-land. 

Upon  life's  sky  is  shadow'd  forth  a  fire, 

With  my  deep  longings  and  desires  inwrought ; 

And  in  the  warnings  of  its  mystic  lyre 

My  life  seems  treasured  for,  I  know  not  what. 

Oh  !  will  this  spell,  this  dark,  stern,  withering  spell, 
Now  cradled  on  my  very  being's  might, 

Break  when  the  soul,  beyond  this  tearful  vale, 
Has  stretch'd  in  its  unerring,  tireless  flight  ? 

Oh!  will  the  friends  I've  loved  intensely  here, 
And  sought  to  bind  to  me  with  anxious  say, 

Be  mine  within  that  better,  brighter  sphere — 
Mine  through  eternity's  unending  day? 

I  will  believe  that  when  this  stormy  strife, 

Its  cares  and  tears,  and  fears,  shall  have  an  end, 

That  I  shall  join  in  pure  celestial  life 

The  sever'd  members  of  my  earthly  band. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  225 


I  will  believe  that  there  is  rest  for  me 
Within  the  walls  of  New  Jerusalem  ; 

That  in  my  Father's  house  a  home  will  be 
Mine,  by  the  merits  of  the  precious  Lamb. 

Then  this  shall  nerve  me  for  a  purer  life, 

Nerve  me  against  the  tempter's  will  and  power; 

Nerve  me  to  rise  against  earth's  storm  and  strife, 
And  gird  me  for  a  brighter,  better  shore. 

And  in  the  strength  of  Him,  my  Lord  and  King, 
I'll  suffer  till  the  Saviour  calls  for  me ; 

And  oh,  what  joy  !  if  able,  then,  to  sing 
Redeeming  love,  through  all  eternity. 


226  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Distrust  Not. 


THERE  was  a  dark  frown  on  the  brow  of  time,. 
1    As  he  wheel'd  the  old  year  home, 
And  netted  a  shroud  from  the  wintry  cloud, 
And  wrapp'd  it  around  the  tomb. 

And  the  wind  wailed  long  a  requiem  song, 

For  it  carried  many  a  tear  ; 
And  the  red-breast  said,  as  she  went  to  bed, 

"  Tis  the  gift  of  the  good  old  year/' 

"  Not  so,"  said  th'  sparrow,  "  my  gift  for  th'  morrow 

Is  my  Maker's  kind  bequest ; 
By  Him  I  am  fed,  'tis  He  makes  my  bed, 

So  the  sparrow  may  safely  rest." 

If  God  clothes  th'  lily  and  houses  th'  sparrow, 

What  cause  have  we  for  distrust  ? 
Cling  closer  to  Him,  as  thy  gold  becomes  dim, 

He  has  treasures  that  never  will  rust. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  227 


Oh,  Linger  Not,  Passing  Breeze! 

OH,  linger  not!  linger  not!  passing  breeze, 
Bear  onward  thy  dirge  to  the  distant  seas 
The  flowers  were  fair,  but  thy  chilling  breath 
Hath  laid  them  to  sleep  in  the  arms  of  death. 

Speed  onward !  speed  onward !  thy  mournful  wail, 
For  thy  blighting  blast  is  felt  in  the  vale  ; 
And  the  with'ring  tones  of  thy  pealing  knell 
Are  shaking  the  robe  from  the  forest  dell. 

We  knew  thy  approach,  mysterious  guest, 
By  the  trembling  leaf  on  thy  swelling  breast: 
We  saw  the  rose  droop  'neath  thy  phantom  stride 
As  onward  it  pass'd  in  its  pow'r  and  pride. 

We  heard  thy  wild  shout  in  the  evening  still 
Ere  its  echoes  died  on  the  craggy  hill; 
And  we  paus'd,  of  thy  form  to  catch  a  glimpse, 
But  it  pass'd  unseen  like  the  fairy  nymphs. 

We  felt  thy  cool  breath  on  our  aching  brows 
As  we  heard  thee  sport  in  the  leafless  boughs ; 
And  while  we  paus'd  in  our  wild'ring  dream, 
We  saw  thou  hadst  sped  o'er  the  silv'ry  stream. 


228  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


We  turn'd  to  the  earth  o'er  which  thou  hadst  fled, 
And  lo  !  it  was  strown  with  the  dying  and  dead  ; 
And  as  though  all  nature  were  going  to  die, 
The  stream,  too,  murmur'd  a  sad  lullaby. 

Then  onward  I  speed  onward  !  thou  fleeting  thing 
For  solitude  marks  the  plume  of  thy  wing  ; 
Thy  voice  is  hoarse,  like  the  cry  of  despair — 
Then  onward  !  speed  onward  !  thou  fleeting  air. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  229 


Imperfection  Mars  all  our  Christian  Efforts. 

IT  was  a  calm,  a  peaceful,  pensive  day, 
And  mem'ry  gather'd  up  the  deeds  of  years  ; 
Not  slow-paced,  toiling  up  the  weary  way, 

But  leap'd,  as  'twere,  from  off  one  burial  bier, 
Bearing  within  its  trembling,  fitful  sheen, 
The  whole  of  life  in  one  wild,  fearful  scene. 

Back  roll'd  the  leaves  of  time,  no  page  undimm'd, 
Blotted   and  bleared  were   some  with   sin's  dark 
stain ; 

And  there  were  furrows  where  the  tears  had  brimm'd, 
And  rushed  like  torrents  to  the  heaving  main, 

To  mingle  drop  with  drop,  and  flood  with  flood, 

Into  the  hand  of  Him  whence  comes  each  good. 

Pages  there  were  which  seem'd  to  sight,  all  fair, 
Type  round  and  bold,  speaking  of  earnest  hopes, 

Of  patience  in  the  trying  hour  of  care, 

When  idol-bliss  was  dashed  with  bitter  drops ; 

But  interlined,  came  trembling  to  my  gaze, 
"  God  was  forgotten  in  thy  works  and  ways" 

Then  came  the  catalogue  of  idle  dreams — 

Of  duties  half  performed  or  left  undone — 
Of  broken  vows — of  sordid  hopes  and  aims — 


230  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Of  mercies  slighted — blessings  trampled  on — 
Of  moments  wasted  as  they  sped  their  way, 
To  rise  before  us  in  the  judgment  day. 

Twas  but  a  glance,  yet  all  was  there,  yea,  all, 
No  shred  was  missing  of  that  life-long  web, 

Mottled  and  shaded,  dark  as  Egypt's  pall, 
From  infant-cradle  to  the  grave-yard  glebe, 

One  scene  of  baffled  hopes,  of  sin  and  care, 

Of  broken  vows,  of  tears  and  trembling  fear. 

Yea,  all  were  there,  as  though  from  starry  height, 
A  living  sheet  had  fallen,  all   inwrought 

With  all  that's  hateful  to  the  God  of  might; 

And  dotted  o'er  with  word,  and  deed,  and  thought, 

That  makes  the  heart-ache — that  strange,  sad  array, 

Which  must  be  met  upon  the  judgment  day. 

No  deeds  were  perfect — nay,  not  one,  not  one; 

From  each  one  Satan  claimed  a  lib'ral  part ; 
Amazed,  I  cried  in  bitterness,  "  Undone  /" 

When  a  soft  whisper  reach'd  my  trembling  heart, 
Which  said,  "Be  still ! — thy  sins  on  Christ  were  laid, 
Look  unto  Him  !     He  has  the  ransom  paid." 

I  look'd — and  in  that  calm  and  blissful  hour 
Forgot  that  earth  had  aught  of  pain  for  me ; 

Forgot  that  toil  must  be  the  pilgrim's  dow'r, 
His  privilege — to  battle  manfully, 

Till  toil,  and  pain,  and  sin,  have  ceased  to  be, 

And  death  been  swallow'd  up  in  victory. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  231 


Oh!  Is  it  Not  in  Hearen? 


WHERE  flows  that  stream  that  never  dries? 
Where  blooms  that  flow'r  that  never  dies  ? 
Where  dawns  that  day  that  never  flies  ? 
Oh  !  Is  it  not  in  heaven? 

Where  sweep  the  chords  of  heaven's  lyre  ? 
Where  swell  [the  praises  of  its  choir, 
Whose  work  of  love  shall  ne'er  expire? 
Oh  !  Is  it  not  in  heaven  ? 

Where  is  the  realm  of  Christ  our  King, 
Where  saints  redeem'd,  their  offrings  bring, 
And  death  no  more  shall  wield  his  sting  ? 
Oh !  Is  it  not  in  heaven  ? 

Where  is  that  home,  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
Where  kindred  hearts  again  will  meet, 
And  earthly  tempests  no  more  beat  ? 
Oh!  Is  it  not  in  heaven? 


232  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


A  Light  Shines  Ever. 

FlS  a  darksome  night,  not  a  single  ray 
J.    Floats  down  from  the  sky  on  my  lonely  way, 
Yet  I  know,  'midst  its  hush'd  and  lonely  gloom, 
A  light  shines  ever,  undimm'd  by  the  tomb. 

Silent,  how  silent !  the  moments  move  on, 
Each  throb  seems  an  age  to  the  weary  one ; 
All  freighted  with  gems  that  come  not  again, 
Only  in  shadows,  to  gaze  on,  in  pain. 

And  yet,  oh  yet !  they  are  mine  in  review, 
Distant,  so  distant  !  and  rough  the  way  through, 
Yet  the  lamp  of  heaven  lights  up  the  road  : 
Tis  the  path  to  peace,  to  loved  ones,  to  God. 

But  a  hush  as  of  death,  silent  and  deep, 
Broods  over  the  whole  like  nature's  last  sleep  ; 
The  prairie  is  silent,  shrouded  and  still, 
A  hush  rests  on  all  things  death-like  and  chill. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  233 


All  Things  Are  Moving.  Onward, 

ALL  things  are  moving  onward  ! 
In  matchless  pow'r  and  might  ; 
The  worlds  that  roll  above  us, 

In  beauty,  grace  and  light  ; 
All,  in  dazzling  loveliness, 

Move  onward  at  The  Word, 
That  roll'd  them  on  their  orbits, 
praises  to  record. 


All  things  are  moving  onward  ! 

Our  seasons  take  their  flight  ; 
Our  days  are  quickly  number'd, 

As  each  succeeds  the  night  ; 
Each  hour,  as  it  speeds  its  way, 

Seems  fleeter  than  the  last  ; 
And  future  years  are  coming, 

To  sleep  among  the  past 

All  things  are  moving  onward  ! 

Youth  is  no  more  a  child  ; 
Man,  no  more  the  giddy  youth, 

Age  weeps  where  childhood  smil'd  ; 
Till  earth  unfolds  her  cold  sod, 

And  veils  the  lifeless  clay  ; 
And  onward  press  the  next  crowd 

To  flutter  out  their  day. 


234  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


All,  all  are  moving  onward  ! 

This  noisy,  busy  world, 
With  its  jesting,  cheating  crowd  ; 

By  rapid  motion  hurl'd ; 
And  onward,  still  right  onward, 

The  universe  will  toss, 
Till  the  trumpet  of  our  Lord 

Warns  us  of  time's  great  close. 

If  this  short-liv'd,  fleeting  span, 

This  tiny,  trembling  thread, 
Is  all  that  bars  our  mortal, 

From  mingling  with  the  dead ; 
How  should  we  prize  each  warning, 

That  round  our  pathway  strays  ; 
Whisp'ring,  with  unerring  truth, 

"  This  life  is  but  a  race." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  235 


Near,  Yet  Far. 

TIS  strangely  dark  !  although  not  night- 
Dim  shadows  float  before  my  sight ; 
Shadows  of  what  have  been  and  gone  : 
Outline,  not  life — echo,  not  song— 

Dimly,  I  see  them  floating  by, 
Floating  afar — not  coming  nigh  ; 
And  yet  not  far — they  almost  seem 
As  yore — only  a  fainter  gleam. 

Then  dark  succeeds,  so  sadly  twined 
With  gleaming  threads  of  Far  Behind  ; 
That,  though  I  see,  I  sadly  know 
We're  near,  yet  far,  while  here  below. 

Yet,  surely,  on  the  other  shore, 
We  shall  be  near  forevermore  ; 
Near  to  each  other,  near  to  God, 
Not  far,  as  on  this  earthly  sod. 

And,  yet  we  sometimes  grasp  the  thought, 
They're  near  us,  in  our  earthly  lot  ; 
For  warning —  not  of  phantom  dream — 
Comes  to  us  from  some  hidden  stream. 


236  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


But  Christ  is  near,  a  sun  and  shade, 
To  light  the  way,  give  strength  and  aid  ; 
Why,  then,  to  fear  and  doubt  give  way  ? 
Tis  His,  to  plan — ours,  to  obey. 

And  faith  swings  back  the  folding  door, 
That  parts  us  from  the  other  shore ; 
And  bids  us  see,  and  feel,  and  know, 
We're  linked  to  heaven  while  here  below. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  237 


No  Age  Exempt  from  Death, 

I  SAW  a  fair,  young  bride, 
With  bright  and  sparkling  eye  ; 
Of  home  the  love  and  pride, 
And  gay  as  butterfly. 

I  saw  her  in  the  throng 

Arrayed  in  purest  white ; 
Life  seemed  to  her  one  song 

Of  beauty,  love  and  light. 

But  death,  relentless  death, 

With  strange  and  mystic  pow'r, 

Met  her  and  stay'd  the  breath, 
And  bore  away  the  flow'r. 

Next  came  a  maiden  fair, 
Upon  whose  youthful  brow 

Time  left  no  trace  of  care, 

Nor  swept  from  cheek  a  glow. 

She  sang  the  sweetest  song, 
And  cull'd  the  gayest  flowV, 

And  floated  midst  the  throng 
Like  some  angelic  pow'r. 


238  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


But  lo  !  an  unseen  dart, 

Then  a  strange  mandate  came  ; 
From  dust  thou  wast,  and  art, 

To  dust  return  again. 

Unheeding  this  came  one 

With  slow  and  measured  tread  ; 

His  hands  had  palsied  grown, 
White  hairs  adorned  his  head. 

He  hobbled  to  the  vale, 

Where  rest  the  shades  of  death  ; 
And  sad,  and  lone,  and  pale, 

He  yielded  up  his  breath. 

"  Poor  man,  he's  gone  at  last/'. 

Said  one,  so  sadly  low ; 
"He  bore  a  heavy  blast 

Ere  heaven  bade  him  go. 

"Who  next  must  hear  the  call, 
The  solemn  midnight  cry  ?" 

I  looked,  and  lo  !  a  pall 
Was  painted  on  the  sky. 

A  pet,  with  sunny  eye 

Came  tripping  in  from  school  ; 
Her  cheek  of  heaven's  dye, 

Her  heart  with  joy  seemed  full. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  239 


But  death  looked  in  her  face, 
And  pluck'd  a  rose-tint  there  ; 

And  lo  !  a  vacant  place, 
An  empty  little  chair. 

An  infant  in  his  crib, 

All  dimpled  o'er  with  smiles, 
With  fingers  nimbly  glib 

Tangled  his  curls  the  whiles. 

An  angel  caught  the  child, 
His  fingers  played  no  more; 

But  looking  up  he  smiled, 
Then  lit  on  the  other  shore. 


240  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Phantom    Ship. 

Veyy  long  ago  a  vessel,  richly  laden  with  Boston's  noble  sons 
and  fathers,  was  on  her  return  trip  from  the  Old  World ;  and  the 
then  little  city  had  assembled,  toward  evening,  with  the  expect- 
ation of  seeing  her  ride  safely  into  port ;  but  instead,  to  their 
dismay,  a  vessel  on  fire  and  inverted,  was  plainly  and  boldly 
defined  upon  the  sky.  She  was  never  heard  of  again. 

THE  sun  was  brightly  shining 
On  a  grand  New  England  shore, 
Flinging  its  golden  tressing 

Upon  the  ocean-floor; 
And  loving  eyes  were  watching 

For  a  noble,  gallant  ship, 
Slowly  the  deep  waves  plowing 
Upon  her  homeward  trip. 

Beauty  and  love  assembled 

To  welcome  her  back  again, 
And  hope's  bright  visions  trembled, 

And  tear-drops  fell  like  rain ;  ' 
For  when  our  hearts  are  reaping 

Foreshadowings  of  our  bliss, 
We  vent  our  joys  in  weeping, 

So  strange  a  world  is  this. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  241 


The  noblest  of  the  city 

Had  cross'd  the  turbulent  main ; 
"  Where  are  they  ?"  love  and  pity, 

Asked  o'er  and  o'er  again  : 
The  sun  was  fastly  nearing 

His  Westerly,  golden  bed, 
Each  heart  was  fill'd  with  fearing, 

Each  bosom  fill'd  with  dread. 

But  hope  has  lost  her  mooring, 

And  the  spy-glass  falls  at  last ; 
E'en  while  love's  thoughts  are  soaring, 

To  spy  the  gallant  mast ; 
The  highest  building's  mounted, 

And  the  tallest  tree  is  climb'd, 
Each  watery  mile  is  counted, 

Arrival  wisely  tim'd. 

All  know  she  is  on  her  passage. 

1  All  feel  that  she  must  be  near, 
Her  standing,  first-rate  classage- 

What  reason  then  for  fear  ? 
A  calm  is  on  the  water, 
.    Just  a  gentle  breeze  sails  by, 
But,  hush  !  why  does  hope  falter? 

.  Why  seek  the  vaulted  sky? 

For  grieved,  sad  looks  went  gazing 
To  the  clear  vault  of  the  sky, 

For,  oh  !  a  sight  amazing 
Transfix'd  each  weeping  eye ; 


242  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Inverted  on  the  heaven, 

With  its  gallant  masts  ablaze, 

A  spectral  ship  was  given 
To  love's  bewild'ring  gaze. 

Alas !  each  read  the  message, 

But  never  a  word  was  said ; 
Dumb  was  the  gift  of  language, 

Stony  the  heart  that  bled— 
There  lay  the  noble  vessel, 

Her  shroudings  incased  in  flame ; 
They  almost  heard  the  crackle 

That  rent  her  noble  frame. 

What  could  they  do  ?  those  weepers, 

Though  sadly,  yet  well  they  knew 
That  busy  angel-reapers 

Were  on  the  ocean,  too. 
That  amidst  the  burning  fire 

The  Saviour  would  save  His  own; 
But,  oh,  for  husband  and  sire, 

Gone  from  the  altar-stone. 

They  turned  with  bitter  weeping 

When  the  phantom  ship  went  out ; 
For  lov'd  ones  that  were  sleeping 

Down  in  the  ocean  grot, 
Each  heart  was  made  a  mourner, 

Every  home  a  phantom  shade; 
Each  shadow  seemed  a  warner, 

With  tidings  from  the  dead. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  243 

But  never  in  year's  drifting 

Over  the  ocean  of  time, 
Did  golden  moments,  sifting, 

Ke-act  the  paradigm. 
Never  did  grief  woo  backward 

The  moments  that  fly :  How  swift ! 
Never  while  time  moves  onward 

Will  that  dark  shadow  lift 


244  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Lone  Tree  of  the  Prairie. 

About  eight  miles  from  Paris,  111.,  stood,  long  years  since,  an 
elm  tree,  which  served,  together  with  a  small  grove,  called  Pilot 
Grove,  to  guide  the  stranger  across  the  arm  of  the  Grand  Prairie. 
It  was  at  last  cut  down,  in  order  to  save  a  party  of  travelers  from 
perishing. 

ON  the  broad,  sweeping  prairie,  majestic  and  lone, 
Where  the  blasts  of  full  many  a  winter  had  blown, 
A  tall  elm  had  flung  its  deep  foliage  on  high, 
To  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  cloud  of  the  sky.J 

But  what  time,  or  by  whom  it  was  planted  just  there 
Has  for  years  been  unknown  to  the  bold  pioneer; 
And  full  many  a  tale  has  been  told  of  that  tree, 
Though  its  birthright  is  shrouded  in  deep  mystery. 

Yea,  none  the  dark  mystery  could  ever  unfold, 
Though  the  tree  grew  in  beauty  thro'  sunshine  and 

colfl; 

Why  its  lot  had  been  cast  in  that  strange  solitude, 
Far  away  from  its  mate  of  the  dark,  shady  wood. 

Now,  perhaps  that  dear  elm,  for  to  me  it  seems  deart 
Was  conveyed  to  that  spot  by  the  tenderest  care ; 
Kind  affection,  for  aught  that  time  ever  reveal'd, 
May  have  molded  a  couch  which  that  dark  sod  con- 
ceal'd 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  245 


And  there  that  memento,  but  a  young  sapling  rod, 
May  have   been   thrust  as   a  tomb-mark  'neath  the 

dark  sod ; 
Which,  springing  to  life,  reared  its  plume  toward  the 

cloud, 
As  a  mantle  of  love,  and  a  tombstone  and  shroud. 

Or  perchance  a  bold  warrior  was  laid  to  rest 
With  his  bow  by  his  side  and  his  face  to  the  west ; 
And  that  tall  stately  elm  from  the  dark-wooded  land 
Was  .affix'd  to  its  bed  by  that  warrior's  band. 

But  this  glorious  thought  is  to  me  far  more  dear, 
Let  me  pause  while  the  hand  of  my  God  I  revere ; 
The  elm-tree,  thus  enshrouded  in  deep  mystery, 
Has  at  last  told  the  tale  of  its  high  destiny. 

A  dark  storm  is  falling  from  the  depths  of  the  sky, 
The  day  swiftly  waning,  and  the  wind  blowing  high ; 
When  careworn  and  weary,  and  sickening  with  cold, 
Some  wand'rer's  are  seeking  a  sheltering  fold. 

And  now  they  debate,  for  no  tree,  shrub,  nor  brier 
Can  be  found  to  replenish  their  fast-kindlirfg  fire  ; 
And  the  muttering  storm-king,  deep,  solemn  and  low, 
Is  abroad  in  his  might,  and  his  mantle  of  snow. 

But  a  smile  lights  the  brow,  for,  far  over  the  lea 
They  espy  the  dim  form  of  the  noble  elm-tree ; 
One  fear  nerves  each  muscle,  trembling  hope  warms 

each  breast, 
As  they  manfully  toil  for  refreshment  and  rest. 


246  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Twas  the  work  of  a  moment,  the  tree  is  laid  low, 
And  the  ascending  flame  glimmers  over  the  snow ; 
And  though  the  storm  mutters,  the  weaned  may  rest, 
For  the  hand  that  has  saved  them  is  o'er  them  to 
bless. 

It  was  thus  that  far  back  in  the  counsels  of  might 
Had  been  measured  the  scenes  of  that  terrible  night; 
And  the  Might  that  had  measured, the  Hand  and  the 

Rod, 
Had  directed  that  elm  to  the  dark  prairie  sod. 

And  while  mortals  beheld  it  with  wandering  eye, 
God  watched  over  its  growth  from  the  halls  of  the 

sky, 

And  protected  its  roots  from  the  dearth  and  the  frost, 
While  His  heavenly  breezes  its  light  branches  tost. 

Thus  glorious  in  beauty,  gigantic  in  size, 

It  spread  its  green  plume  toward  the  halls  of  the  skies, 

Till  the  point  had  been  gain'd  and  the  moment  had 

fled, 
Its  mission  accomplished,  lo !  the  tree  was  laid  dead. 

Smile  not,  unbeliever,  thy  own  shortening  breath 
Is  measur'd  by  numbers,  from  the  cradle  till  death  ; 
Nay,  but  one  tiny  step,  and  the  race  has  been  run, 
Thy  work  all  accomplished,  thy  scoffing  all  done. 


TBE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  247 


Saviour,  Near  Me  Be. 

CHRIST,  my  Saviour,  near  me  be, 
When  misfortunes  frown  on  me; 
Go  thou  with  me  through  this  life, 
Stand  beside  me  in  its  strife. 

When  the  stern  world,  sterner  grows, 
When  its  swift  tide,  swifter  flows  ; 
Then,  dear  Saviour,  near  me  be, 
Succor,  shield,  and  strengthen  me. 

When  the  cold  wind,  colder  blows, 
When  the  dark  night,  darker  grows ; 
Then,  although  I  cannot  see, 
Please  to  guide  me  all  the  way. 

When  upon  the  verge  I  stand, 
Of  the  untrod,  unseen  land  ; 
Saviour,  take  me  to  Thy  rest, 
In  the  mansion  of  the  blest 


248  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


A  Maiden, 

ON    SEEING    A    SNOWFLAKE    FOR   THE    FIRST    TIME* 


SHE  stood  at  her  window  casement, 
When  the  wind  was  blowing  high  ; 
And  over  the  grassy  pavement, 
The  storm  went  mutt'ring  by. 

And.lo  !  from  the  cloudy  heaven, 

A  snowflake  came  floating  down  ; 
And  fell  on  the  hand  of  the  maiden, 

Feathery,  but  cold  as  stone. 
Speechless  with  fear  and  amazement, 

Hasted  the  maiden  to  flee  ; 
When  to  its  fluid  element, 

The  snowflake  melted  away.' 

Then  murmur'd  the  snowflake's  spirit, 
"  I  gather'd  that  feath'ry  flake 

From  the  mountain's  leaping  torrent, 
From  the  marsh-pool  and  the  lake. 

"  Pve  borne  it  to  ev'ry  flow'ret, 

That  blooms  round  palace  and  cot ; 

Transferr'd  it  to  ev'ry  spirit, 

That  kisses  the  realms  of  thought. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  249 


"And  atom  to  atom  bringing, 

Little  by  little  it  grew  ; 
Till  a  crystal  globe  in  being, 

Was  sparkling,  that  drop  of  dew. 

"  Little  by  little  the  sunbeam 
Chang'd  into  vapor  the  dew  ; 

And  cold  winds  wrought,  of  silver  gleam, 
The  snowflake  I  sent  to  you. 

"  Fair  maiden,  this  world  is  fleeting! 

Time  edges  eternity  ! 
I  sent  thee  the  snowflake's  teaching ; 

What  said  the  snowflake  to  thee  ?" 

"  That  snowflake,  ever  a  dew-drop  ? 

That  cold,  white,  feathery  thing, 
A  part  of  the  ocean's  deep  cup  ? 

Do  our  life-hopes  to  it  cling  ? 

"  I've  not  understood  my  mission ; 

If  the  flake  that  came  to  me, 
Was  part  of  a  stagnant  fountain, 

Transform'd  to  such  purity, 

"  Like  a  snowflake,  I'll  endeavor 
To  bless,  with  a  word  of  love, 

Every  nook  where  I  can  labor, 
Until  I  am  call'd  above." 


250  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  spirit  had  paused  for  answer, 
The  snowflake  had  come  and  gone ; 

No  trace  of  his  flaky  vesture, 
Was  left  on  the  grassy  lawn. 

But  that  snowflake  still  has  being, 

Empyreal  now,  as  then, 
And  we  can  improve  its  teaching, 

In  the  earthly  homes  of  men. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  251 


Scene  of  the  Transfiguration. 

A  CLOUD  of  love  floated  down  from  above 
On  a  group  of  loving  friends  ; 
Where  the  softest  light  with  its  colors  bright, 
Wove  a  chaste,  pure  way  to  the  realms  of  day, 
For  weary  feet  to  climb. 

A  glorious  ray  from  eternal  day 
Had  shone  in  our  world  of  sin  ; 
And  two  lesser  lights  from  the  upper  heights 
Had  come  down  that  day  on  their  golden  ray, 
To  Christ,  the  Truth,  the  Way. 

It  was  no  earth-scheme,  but  a  Saviour's  claim, 
That  brought  from  heaven  that  day 
Those  spirits  of  might,  on  the  wings  of  light, 
With  a  mission  of  love  from  courts  above, 
To  Him,  God's  only  Son. 

And  the  mystic  way  grew  brighter  that  day, 
They  saw  with  their  living  eyes 
The  sons  of  past  time  come  back  to  our  clime, 
From  the  silent  urn,  from  the  deathless  bourne, 
The  loving  spirit-home. 


252 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


They  saw  and  they  felt  that  a  God  had  dwelt 
Among  them  in  human  form ; 

And  that  death's  dark  shade  cannot  hold  our  dead; 
While  guarded  by  Him  all  else  might  grow  dim, 
But  not  His  love  to  them. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  253 


Death  of  Rev.  A.  Judson. 

HIS  work  is  done,  and  nobly  done ! 
His  race  is  o'er,  the  crown  is  won  ! 
Another  hand  has  struck  heav'ns  lyre, 
Another  voice  has  join'd  its  choir. 

But  hark!  on  India's  sultry  shore's 
A  trembling  lyre,  its  wailing  pours, 
A  waiting  band  their  anthems  raise, 
But  still,  in  death,  their  leader  lies. 

But  tho'  thou'rt  of  the  world  on  high, 
Judson,  thy  name  will  never  die; 
For  age  will  hand  it  down  to  age, 
Graven  on  time's  unfading  page. 

But  what  to  thee  is  fame's  applaud 
Since  thou  art  with  thy  Saviour,  God  ? 
Earth's  toils  and  cares,  what  now  to  thee  ? 
Thy  rest  is  gain'd,  thy  soul  is  free. 


254  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Others  with  thee  commenced  their  race, 
And  sleep  like  thee  in  death's  embrace; 
But,  oh !  upon  that  brighter  shore 
Many  will  walk  with  thee  no  more. 

But  others  still  their  race  have  run, 
And  like  thyself,  the  prize  have  won  : 
Like  thee,  have  gain'd  the  rest  above, 
The  world  of  bliss,  the  realm  of  love. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  255 


Why  Stand  ye  Here  Idle? 


WHY  stand  ye  here  idle? 
Go,  work  in  the  vineyard  ! 
The  Master  is  calling  thee  now ; 
The  morning  is  lingering, 
The  Son  is  inviting, 
Go,  work  in  the  vineyard  to-day  ! 

Why  stand  ye  here  idle 

While  sinners  are  dying  ? 

Go,  work  in  the  vineyard  to-day ! 

The  fields  are  all  whitening, 

The  harvest  is  waiting, 
Go,  work  in  the  vineyard  to-day ! 

Why  stand  ye  here  idle  ? 

The  hours  are  waning, 

There's  work  in  the  vineyard  for  thee ; 

From  the  servants  of  Jesus, 

"  Come  over  and  help  us," 
Is  the  call  from  the  vineyard  to-day. 


256  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


River  of  Death. 


THOU  art  from  the  Sierra  Morena, 
J.        Oh  !  thou  dark,  mysterious  wave  ; 
From  the  cave  of  hidden  majesty, 
From  a  dark,  sulphuric  grave. 

From  the  pools  of  that  rugged  mountain, 
Thou  art  bearing  the  blight  of  death, 

In  the  wave  of  thy  gushing  fountain, 
And  upon  thy  noxious  breath. 

From  steep  over  steep  thou  art  leaping, 
With  thy  baneful,  turbulent  tide ; 

Over  earth's  vegetation  sweeping, 
Thy  dark,  deathful  water's  glide. 

Thou  art  carrying  out  thy  mission, 
Oh,  thou  dark,  mysterious  stream  ! 

With  a  sad  and  bold  precision, 

Thou  art  weaving  out  God's  scheme. 

But  He  who  has  bid  thy  billows  rise, 
From  out  earth's  sulphurous  bed, 

Is  the  Same  who  watered  Paradise, 
Before  man  had  disobeyed. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  257 


She  Gathered  the  Seeds  of  Summer, 

SHE  gathered  the  seeds  of  summer, 
The  seeds  of  our  flowers  gay ; 
Midst  the  low  and  gentle  murmur 
Of  the  breezes  out  at  play. 

She  gather'd  for  another  year, 
And  cased  them  gently  away  ; 

From  cold,  bleak  winds  and  frosty  air 
She  housed  them  away  that  day. 

That  day  should  have  been  a  warning, 
So  unlike  the  past  and  gone ; 

We  should  have  beheld  the  dawning, 
That  waited  our  darling  one. 

Ere  the  frosty  breath  of  autumn 
Had  given  our  earth  a  kiss; 

A  stranger  called  for  this  blossom, 
To  bedeck  a  world  of  bliss. 


258  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

I  answer'd  the  call  of  heaven, 

"  Only  three — I  can't  spare  one  ! " 

There  had  tender  chords  been  riven,. 
And  two  had  already  gone, 

I  clipp'd  off  her  golden  ringlets, 
And  laid  them  gently  away ; 

As  she  had  arranged  her  seedlets, 
To  germ  on  another  day. 

Twas  morn — an  angel  from  glory, 
To  our  darling's  couch  drew  nigh  -r 

And  bore  her  on  wings  of  beauty, 
To  our  Father's  house  on  high. 

Years  sped,  as  they're  ever  speeding, 
In  beauty  and  love  r.ud  grace  ; 

When,  with  fingers  all  unheeding, 
We  opened  the  little  case. 

The  breath  of  the  bending  heaven 
Had  found  the  seeds  in  the  case; 

And  kiss'd,  with  the  dew  of  even, 
Each  one  into  life  and  grace. 

Tall  stems  with  their  little  leaflets 
Sprang  quickly  out  to  the  eye, 

From  that  little  wooden  casket, 
That  she  had  laid  gently  by. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  259 


Yea,  stemlets  sprung  out  before  us, 
Straight  as  an  arrow  that  day ; 

While  others  had  woven  meshes, 
To  lay  in  the  lap  of  May. 

She  left  us  this  tender  lesson, 
For  the  days  that  onward  fly ; 

'Twas  to  us  her  farewell  mission, 
Ere  passing  to  worlds  on  high. 


260  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Last  Plague  of  Egypt. 

THREE  days  and  nights  had  the  dark  pall  hung 
Over  Egypt's  guilty  head ; 
Three  days  the  tones  of  the  minstrel  song 
Been  hush'd  by  that  darkness  dread. 

When  to  its  bosom  the  last  dread  plague 

Is  gathering  its  fiercest  might, 
And  mingling  in  one  dark,  bitter  dreg, 

Its  mildew,  and  death,  and  blight. 

And  midnight  dread,  with  its  sombre  car. 

Drew  near  with  its  glitt'ring  train ; 
Oh !  what  had  it,  or  its  twinkling  star, 

To  do  with  that  guilty  plain  ? 

It  mounts  the  zenith,  that  guiding  star, 

And  with  pestilential  breath 
The  halls  of  Egypt,  both  far  and  near, 

Are  swept  by  the  wings  of  death. 

A  pearl  from  the  royal  diadem, 

A  bud  from  the  peasant's  bower; 
And  from  each  household  is  torn  a  gem, 

To  be  given  back  no  more. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  261 


For  the  angel  of  heaven  had  pass'd, 

No  Magi  might  life  restore ; 
Death  drew  his  sting  from  the  midnight  blast, 

And  bade  the  proud  king  adore. 

At  first  the  curse  that  blighted  his  coast 

Had  power  to  stay  his  hand; 
The  next  we  see  him  gath'ring  his  host, 

The  pride  and  strength  of  his  land. 

And  on,  where  the  Red  Sea  rolls  its  wave, 

His  chariot  takes  the  lead  ; 
Proud  monarch !  he  found  his  own  dark  grave 

Where  mercy  will  never  plead. 

He  led  his  host  far  out  in  the  sea, 
And  thought  the  prize  all  his  own  ; 

Out  in  the  deep,  no  God  for  his  stay, 
Jehovah  on  him  look'd  down. 

That  look  had  pow'r  to  trouble  the  souls 

Of  that  dark,  Egyptian  host; 
They  see  as  God's  providence  unrolls, 

Too  late,  they'd  counted  the  cost. 

Israel  is  safe,  and  a  puny  hand 

Brings  again  the  parted  wave, 
That  weaves  a  shroud  for  that  guilty  band, 

And  the  sea-bed  forms  their  grave. 


262  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Israel  is  safe,  and  a  shout  of  praise 

O'er  the  heaving  billows  rose 
To  Him,  who  had  saved  them  by  His  grace, 

From  the  arm  of  mighty  foes. 

'Tis  the  God  of  Israel  ruleth  now, 

Let  His  saints,  adoring,  trust ; 
The  God  who  laid  the  Egyptian  low, 

Let  tyrants  own  Him  just. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  263 


God  Speed  the  Right. 

GOD  speed  the  right ! 
Freeman  swell  the  heav'n-taught  strain; 
Bid  it  leap  the  mountain  height, 

Bid  it  traverse  every  plain : 
And  with  swift  electric  wing 

Bid  it  thread  the  trembling  wires, 
Till  the  Right  its  echoes  bring 
To  our  altars  and  our  fires. 

God  speed  the  right ! 

Christians,  raise  the  pleading  cry, 
Till  it  gather  holy  might, 

As  a  passport  to  the  sky ; 
Till  the  arm  of  might  that  hurl'd, 

On  its  orbit,  light  and  free, 
Ev'ry  vast  expansive  world 

Shall  roll  on  the  jubilee. 

God  speed  the  right ! 

Till  no  child  of  want  and  woe 
Shall  stand  writhing  'neath  the  blight 

That  has  laid  his  prospects  low : 
Till  one  jubilant  shall  thrill 

Every  nerve  of  life  and  love ; 
And  on  earth  Jehovah's  will 

Shall  be  done  as  done  above. 


264  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Lines. 

Suggested    by  hearing     a  friend  remark,   "  I  so  much  miss  my 
little  cripple  boy."     A  very  excellent  and  intelligent  boy  was 

Andrew. 

d  I'M  looking  to  the  future 

1    When  God  shall  give  me  wings — 
Wings  that  shall  pierce  the  ether, 

And  rise  to  heavenly  things ; 
No  more  a  little  cripple — • 

Like  many  of  my  race — 
The  hopes  which  seem  so  simple 

Are  nourish'd  by  God's  grace. 

"Jesus  gives  us  all  we  have, 

He  made  me  as  you  see ; 
He  can  shelter,  shield  and  save, 

Through  all  eternity. 
And  though  a  crippled  mortal, 

I  live  and  die  in  pain, 
I  shall  be  all  beautiful 

When  raised  to  life  again, 

"  Along  life's  rugged  pathway 

Eternity  shines  bright; 
The  gleaming  of  its  glory 

Falls  ever  on  my  sight ; 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  265 

And  wings  of  starry  luster 

Are  there  awaiting  me : 
My  hopes  are  based,  dear  Father, 

On,  Jesus  died  for  me? 

Thus  sweet   Andrew  near'd  the  goal, 

A  painless,  endless  rest; 
But  the  soul,  all  beautiful, 

Christ  pillow'd  on  His  breast: 
A  crown  of  brilliant  luster 

Was  there  awaiting  him  ; 
He  wears  that  crown,  dear  Father 

Which  never  can  grow  dim. 


They've  met  again  in  endless  bliss 

The  father,  mother,  son ; 
The  link  that  sever'd  here,  in  this, 

Cements  around  God's  throne. 
No  burning  tear,  no  bleeding  heart, 

Will  ever  mar  that  chain ; 
Tis  earth's  prerogative  to  part, 

Tis  heaven's  to  bind  again. 


266  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


Sowing  the  Seeds  of  Good  or  Evil. 

UNKINDLY  or  kindly  we  sow  to-day 
The  seed  that  shall  germ  by  the  great  highway ; 
It  may  be  for  weal,  or  it  may  be  for  woe, 
That  we  sow  the  seed  wherever  we  go — 
What  will  the  harvest  be  ? 

i 

Harshly  or  kindly,  wherever  we  stray, 
We  are  sowing  seed  for  another  day ; 
Sowing  at  morning,  at  noontide  and  night, 
Sowing  in  darkness  and  sowing  in  light, 
What  will  the  harvest  be? 

Kindly  and  gently  our  work  may  be  done 
In  the  scorching  heat  of  the  noonday-sun ; 
Sowing  with  patience  and  sowing  with  care, 
Sowing  in  sad  tears,  and  sowing  with  prayer — 
What  will  the  harvest  be  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  267 


The  Two  Webs. 


T  GATHER'D  from  the  hall  and  bow'r 
1  The  tinsel'd  glory  of  an  hour ; 
And  wove  a  web  of  brilliant  sheen 
From  glitt'ring  threads  of  every  scene. 

Brilliant  that  web  !  surpassing  far 
The  brilliance  of  our  boldest  star; 
Holding  within  its  folds  a  glow 
Too  bright  for  earthly  eyes  below. 

A  fleeting  hour,  what  can  that  be, 
Compared  with  vast  Eternity? 
The  glittering  webs  by  earth-scenes  purled, 
How  look  they  to  the  other  world  ? 

From  that  one  hour  I  cull'd  again 

The  sober-hued  of  figures  plain ; 

Of  these  I  wove  another  web 

Which  stretch'd  beyond  life's  rugged  glebe. 

Our  Saviour  knew  that  web  full  well, 
Had  worn  the  like  in  earthly  vale ; 
Had  said  to  all,  both  bond  and  free, 
"  Put  on  such  robe  and  follow  me." 


268  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


I  saw  one  standing  'tween  the  sheen, 
And  the  blest  Saviour's  garb  so  plain ; 
And  when  he  learned  the  plain  array 
He  turn'd  and  went  another  way. 

Humility,  that  Christ-like  garb, 
Is  fittest  robe  for  earthly  orb ; 
Without  it  we  can  never  be 
A  member  of  Christ's  family. 

An  hour,  how  short !    How  fleet  the  span  ! 
What  grave  importance  'tis  to  man  ! 
'Tis  not  the  tinselry,  nor  gold, 
Gives  us  a  title  to  Christ's  fold. 

Give  me,  oh !  Lord,  thy  righteousness, 
Robe  me  in  spotless  holiness  ; 
With  humble  patience  make  me  bear 
The  image  of  my  Saviour  here. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  269 


Infant. 


THERE'S  an  empty  little  crib, 
J.    And  a  cast-off  baby-bib, 

Lock'd  up  in  the  old  west  room ; 
And  a  lovely  little  form, 
Safely  resting  from  the  storm, 

In  the  hush  of  the  silent  tomb. 

But  within  the  glowing  light, 
Of  a  world  without  a  night, 

Like  him  in  the  silent  tomb  ; 
There's  an  infant  spirit-form, 
Resting  safely  from  the  storm, 

Far  away  from  our  earthly  gloom. 

And  among  the  harping  band, 
With  a  golden  harp  in  hand, 

Afar  from  the  old  west  room ; 
From  his  rusting  casket  form, 
Sleeping  out  a  wintry  storm, 

He  is  safe  in  the  Saviour's  home. 


270  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Lady's  Delight. 

"  This  diminutive,  but  beautiful  flower,  known  by  so  many  names 
in  different  parts  of  our  country,  was  the  chosen  and  favorite  flower 
of  the  great  conqueror  Napoleon ;  in  consequence  of  which,  it 
accompanied  every  national  honor,  and  entered  into  every  minu- 
tiae of  splendor  and  elegance,  pertaining  to  dress,  equipage  and 
arms.  Thus  the  derivation  of  the  too  common  name,  Napoleon's 
flower;  which,  on  account  of  its  meek  and  quiet  loveliness,  its 
chaste  and  unobtrusive  beauty,  it  should  never  bear." 

THIS  lovely  little  violet, 
They  call'd  Napoleon's  flower; 
And  wove  it  in  the  coronet, 
And  nurs'd  it  in  the  bower. 

Twas  painted  on  the  lady's  dress, 

And  twined  around  the  brow ; 
And  broider'd  in  the  golden  tress 

That  hid  the  neck  of  snow. 

It  shone  from  out  the  warrior's  plume, 

And  danc'd  above  the  slain ; 
And  glitter'd  o'er  the  lowly  tomb, 

Among  the  sable  train. 

Affix'd  unto  the  nation's  weal, 

It  grac'd  the  Emperor's  crown, 
And  sprung  amidst  the  trumpet's  peal, 

O'er  lands  which  he  had  won. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  271 


Full  oft  I  have  sought  to  know,  in  vain, 
Whence  came  the  secret  power, 

Which  round  Napoleon  flung  the  chain, 
That  bound  him  to  that  flower : 

And  back  to  days  of  infancy, 

Have  trac'd  the  monitor  ; 
And  saw  unlocked  the  mystery, 

A  mother's  gentle  power. 

A  power  that  all  through  life  will  live, 

And  clearer  shine  at  last ; 
Tracing  the  wand'ring  fugitive, 

Till  this  short  life  is  past. 


272  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Constantine. 


History  says :  "  While  Constantine  was  rallying  for  battle,  he 
saw,  in  the  air,  a  cross,  on  which  was  written,  *  By  This,  Conquer.' 
He  became  a  Christian — made  a  Cross  the  standard  of  his  army, 
under  which  he  fought  and  conquered." 

UPON  the  boist'rous  wake  of  war, 
With  mail-clad  armor  girded, 
Banner  and  pennon  sweeping  far, 
And  eyes  to  heaven  directed  : 
A  monarch,  tried  and  tempest-tost, 
Dared  not  to  halt  or  falter,  ' 
For  typ'd  on  air's  hyaline  vast, 
Was  blazon'd  far  above  his  host, 
The  wondrous  image  of  a  cross, 
And  o'er  it,  on  the  airy  wall, 
A  curtain,  waiting  soon  to  fall, 
Was  held  aloft  a  moment  longer, 
Till  he  could  read  the  warning  given, 
Upon  the  hyaline  cross  of  heaven : 
"  By  This,  Conquer." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  273 


He  stamp'd  it  on  a  hidden  scroll, 
The  tablet  of  his  mem'ry, 
Within  the  casket  of  the  soul : 
Then  nerved  him  for  the  vict'ry ; 
For  he  had  read  on  heaven's  face 
How  he  might  be  a  victor, 
And  gird  the  mountain  and  the  plain, 
The  island  and  the  heaving  main, 
With  golden  thread  and  iron  chain, 
To  grace  his  great  triumphal  car, 
Like  trophies  from  the  world  afar ; 
Had  he  not  read  amidst  war's  clangor 
The  gracious  warning  to  him  given 
Upon  the  hyaline  cross  of  heaven ; 
"  By  This,  Conquer." 

And  weaving  in  the  battle  shout, 
"  This  cross — by  this  I  conquer," 
Where  banner'd -cross  lay  on  the  zone, 
It  curb'd  the  fiery  passions  down, 
Each  shout  gave  back  an  answ'ring  tone, 

o  o 

Then  breath'd  the  battle  stronger ; 
And  swept  the  plains — and  fields  were  won, 
Till  saber-stroke  and  dying  groan 
Ceas'd  where  the  conquer'd  host  went  down 
With  their  valiant  but  strange  renown : 
And  foot  by  foot  the  conq'ring  car 
With  banner'd  cross  and  trumpets  clangor, 
And  the  strange  message  to  him  given 
Upon  the  hyaline  cross  of  heaven; 
"  By  This,  Conquer." 


274  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Constantine  led  the  conq'ring  car, 
With  banner'd  cross  still  sweeping, 
Met  the  opposing  tide  of  war 
Upon  his  pathway  creeping ; 
Till  by  that  cross  he  gained  a  crown, 
For  time  and  change  to  alter ; 
Gain'd  titled  fame,  its  high  renown, 
Its  battles  fought,  its  conquests  won, 
The  victor's  wreath  around  him  thrown ; 
The  blighted  hopes  of  other  years ; 
The  widow's,  orphan's  burning  tears  ; 
All  to  his  heart  no  stranger : 
But  to  his  sight  there  had  been  given, 
Upon  the  hyaline  cross  of  heaven  : 
"  By  This,  Conquer," 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  275 


Drummer  Boy. 

"A  drummer,  belonging  to  one  of  Napoleon's  armies,  which  was,at 
the  time,  crossing  the  Alps,  being  precipitated  thirty  or  forty  feet 
into  a  deep  gorge,  sent  up,  from  his  solitary  position,  the  sad  tones  of 
his  drum,  as  if  to  beat  a  parting  reveille  to  his  companions." 

HE  beat  his  last  reveille,  as  sad  he  stood, 
In  the  drear  of  that  Alpine  solitude; 
And  the  mournful  strokes  of  that  quick  beat'n  strain 
Struck  chill  to  the  hearts  of  those  warrior  men. 

And  the  hasty  tones  of  that  mournful  farewell,  " 
Just  lingered  awhile  on  the  Alpine  gale ; 
But  fainter  and  fainter  the  roll  swept  up, 
Till  it  ceas'd  to  be  heard  on  the  mountain  slope. 

Now  he  shudders  no  more  at  the  mutt'ring  blast, 
The  music  has  ceased,  the  spirit  has  pass'd  ; 
He  sleeps  his  last  sleep,  far  from  flow'r  and  wave, 
The  snow  for  a  shroud,  and  the  Alps  for  a  grave. 

Away  from  his  kindred,  away  from  his  home, 

Entomb'd  all  alone  in  that  Alpine  gloom ; 

Who  would  wish  thus  to  re-enter  his  clay, 

When  bursts  on  our  vision  the  Great  Judgment-Day? 


27 6  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Procrastination  the  Thief  of  Time. 


FROM  the  wing  of  a  moment,  a  thief  stole  a  feather, 
And  the  moment  sped  on,  with  its  unequal  measure; 
And  the  angel  of  heaven  recorded,  "  Forever, 
Time  or  space  for  that  duty  returns  to  thee,  never." 

And  the  duty  lay  there,  in  Life's  pathway  forever, 
Undone,  and  retarding  each  heavenward  endeavor; 
But  the  moment  was  gone,  and  now,  never,  oh  never 
Will  a  space  for  that  duty,  return  to  thee,  ever. 

And  unimprov'd  moments  pressed  along  like  a  river, 
Then  were  dropp'd  'neath  the  wave  of  Eternity's  laver ; 
But  a  deep  undertone  comes  back,  ever  and  ever, 
Time  and  space  for  repentance,  are  thine  now,  or  never. 

Yet  the  heart  often  turns  from  the  voice  of  the  speaker, 
And  closing  its  bright  valves,  in  sin,  sinks  the  deeper 
And  its  hinges  grow  rusty,  to  re-open,  never 
Until  time  and  eternity  mingle  together. 

Not  one  duty  alone,  was  dropp'd  into  the  laver, 
For  myriads  well  up  from  its  vortex  forever : 
How  can  we  then  expect,  without  Christ  as  a  Saviour, 
To  anchor  in  bliss,  when  we  have  pass'd  o'er  death's 
river? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  277 


She  Sweepeth  the  Ocean-floor. 


SHE  held  in  her  hand  the  besom  of  death, 
And  swept  the  dark  ocean  underneath; 
She  swept  every  cavern  over  and  o'er, 
And  the  golden-sanded  ocean-floor ; 
And  as  she  swept,  this  song 
Through  the  dashing  billows  rang. 

"  Sweep,  where  the  sounding  billow  leaps, 

Sweep,  where  the  twilight  seldom  creeps  ; 

For  the  besom  of  death  is  thine, 

Pale  sweeper  of  ocean-brine." 

So  she  swept  every  cavern  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  the  golden-sanded  ocean  floor. 


278  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


Destruction  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah. 


'TWAS  a  dark  night  of  pleasure,  that  last  guilty 

night, 

Ere  the  storm  of  Jehovah  came  down  in  its  might ; 
And  the  loud  sounds  of  feasting,  that  rang  thro'  the 

gloom, 
Quaver'd  awfully  strange  at  that  gate  of  the  tomb. 

And  the  bright  host  of  heaven,  that  shone  from  afar, 
O'er  the  scenes  of  that  dark  night,  went  out  star  by 

star, 

Till  each  gem,  that  had  studded  the  vale  of  the  night, 
Was  out-vail'd  in  the  glow  of  the  sun's  coming  light. 

The  bright  day  rose  in  splendor,  no  cloud  lay  on  high, 
To  o'ershade  the  deep  blue  of  the  beautiful  sky, 
And  the  calmness  that  rested  on  mountain  and  vale, 
Seem'd  of  hope — Not  the  foretaste  of  danger  and  ill. 

'Twas  a  scene  for  the  eye,  too  enchantingly  bright, 
That  deep  calmness  of  nature,  that  sunshine  and  light ; 
All  too  bright  for  those  sinners,  too  chastely  serene 
For  the  eye  all  pollution,  the  heart  all  unclean. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  279 


But  the  bright  sky  is  draping  in  darkness  and  gloom, 
And  the  Heaven  s  are  molding  a  seal  for  their  doom  ; 
Midst  the  clouds  of  thick  darkness,  that  blot  out  the 

sun, 
Man  had  learned,  when  too  late,  that  God  s  will  must 

be  done. 

But,  what  tongue  can  describe  that  dread  ocean  of 

fire, 

That  roll'd  its  death  torrent  over  turret  and  spire  ? 
And  while  its  fiery  plumage  hangs  over  the  plain, 
Man's  heart  beats  once  only,  to  beat  never  again. 

Those,  slumbering  in  silence,  awake  but  to  die, 
As  the  storm  of  destruction  is  pour'd  from  on  high  ; 
When  the  parents  and  children,  by  one  dreadful  wave, 
Are  all  tomb'd  together,  in  one  dark,  fiery  grave. 

But  the  wreck  of  that  dark  day  man  never  has  seen, 
For  our  God  cast  a  veil  o'er  the  terrible  scene ; 
And  blighted  each  herb,  by  the  power  of  his  breath; 
And  impregned  the  dark  waters  with  mildew  and  death. 


280  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Dr.  York. 


T)  ROT  HER,  farewell !  our  faith  unshaken 
JD  Still  leans  upon  the  arm  of  heaven ; 
The  last  stern  tide  of  woe  is  passed, 
And  thou  art  anchor'd  safe,  at  last. 
Brother,  farewell ! 

Our  hearts,  alas !  by  anguish  riven, 
But  feebly  scan  the  will  of  heaven  ; 
We  fain  once  more  thy  form  would  see, 
And  yet  we  know  this  cannot  be. 
Brother,  farewell  ! 

Brother,  farewell !  In  rank  and  file 
Is  hush'd  thy  voice,  is  lost  thy  smile ; 
Thy  healing  skill  avails  not  now, 
And  marble  beauty  clothes  thy  brow. 
Brother,  farewell ! 

Sternly  the  war-trump  pealed  the  alarm, 
And  manly  sinew — manly  arm 
Were  nerved  to  meet  the  murd'rous  blow  ; 
And  thou,  alas  !  art  fallen,  too. 
Brother,  farewell ! 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  281 


Brother,  farewell !  though  waves  of  blood 
Roll  through  our  land  a  Jiving  flood, 
They  cannot  shock  thy  spirit  more, 
Thy  toil  is  done,  thy  sorrow  o'er. 
Brother,  farewell  1 


282  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Not  As  I  Would. 

TVTOT  as  I  would,  oh,  Lord  ! 

-li        Has  been  the  cup  Thou  gavest ; 

But  still  I  trust  Thy  word, 

"  Thou  chast'nest  whom  Thou  lovest." 

Though  dark  have  been  the  fears, 
Around  my  life-path  gathered  ; 

And  bitter,  burning  tears, 
Have  fallen  all  unnumber'd  ; 

Though  from  my  earthly  sight 
My  fondest  hopes  have  perished ; 

And  to  the  tomb's  dark  night, 

Pass'd  down  my  lov'd  and  cherish'd ; 

Yet,  to  my  longing  eyes,. 

Faith  pencils  out  a  vision  ; 
And  points  me  where  the  prize 

Is  mine  in  bright  fruition. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  283 


And  there,  in  regions  bright, 
Undimm'd  by  earthly  sorrow, 

Are  mine,  in  robes  of  light, 

Secure  from  death's  cold  arrow. 

And  on,  life's  current  flows, 
With  deep  and  heavy  surging ; 

A  few  more  cares  and  woes 
Will  end  its  solemn  dirging. 


284  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Death  of  President  Taylor. 

HE  has  gone  from  the  scenes  of  our  dark,  stormy 
shore, 
Where  the  note  of  the  war-trump  will  rouse  him  no 

more ; 

From  the  last  battle-field  with  its  deep  tainted  breath. 
He  has  flung  off  his  armor,  to  slumber  in  death, 

He  has  gone  from  our  wars  to  his  last  final  home ; 
Never  more  with  his  charger  'midst  carnage  to  roam  ; 
And  the  deep  battle-moan,  on  his  ear,  now  is  still ; 
For  the  last  pulse  has  beaten,  the  life-blood  is  chill. 

He  has  gone  !  and  earth's  wail  cannot  break  his  repose, 
Nor  disturb  its  deep  hush,  till  the  last  trumpet  blows  ; 
The  deep  surging  billows,  that  roll  over  the  past, 
Will  roll  on  all  unheeded,  though  mighty  and  vast. 

He  has  gone  !  and  his  deeds,  whether  fame  or  renown, 
Will   nothing   avail   him,  at  God's   great  judgment 

throne ; 

But  that  faith  in  a  Saviour,  which  worketh  by  love, 
Is  the  passport  to  heaven,  Christ's  kingdom  above. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  285 


Star  of  Bethlehem. 


WHAT  was  there  in  thy  light,  oh,  star  ! 
That  called  the  nations  from  afar  ? 
What  was  it,  told  the  Eastern  Sage, 
That  life  was  written  on  thy  page  ? 

What  of  Divine,  Unknown,  Unseen, 

Save  by  the  faith  that  dwells  within  ? 

What  mirror'd  in  thy  heavenly  ray, 

That  spoke  The  Christ,  The  Life,  The  Way  ? 

Not  to  the  king  upon  the  throne, 

Was  thy  refulgent  glory  shown  ; 

But  seekers  for  celestial  light 

Were  guided  through  the  dark  of  night. 

We  cannot  see  that  form  of  thine, 
But  we  can  call  the  Saviour,  mine, 
He  is  our  star,  our  rock,  our  all, 
He  keeps  us,  that  we  shall  not  fall. 


286 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


By  faith  we  grasp  that  heavenly  light, 
And  our  dark  souls  are  no  more  night ; 
The  veil  is  rent — the  gift  divine 
We  seize,  and  call  the  Saviour,  mine. 

No  gloomy  night — no  darksome  way 
Lies  on  the  road  to  endless  day  ; 
Faith's  ceaseless  and  undying  ray 
Shall  light  our  souls  to  perfect  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  287 


Death  of  Mrs.  Key.  Holden. 

SISTER,  just  a  step  before  us, 
Thou  hast  reached  the  shining  shore ; 
Caught  a  glimpse  of  all  things  glorious, 
Found  a  life  that  dies  no  more, 

Faith  is  lost  in  full  fruition, 

Sorrow's  tear  is  wiped  away ; 
And  upon  thy  rapt'rous  vision 

Bursts  the  dawn  of  endless  day. 

Darkling  shadows  lengthen  round  us, 
Weary  pilgrims  of  life's  day ; 

And  our  sky  beams  almost  rayless 
As  we  thread  the  thorny  way. 

But  for  thee  the  precious  Saviour 

Wore  the  thorns  and  drained  the  cup; 

That  from  cares  and  pains,  forever, 
He  might  take  thy  spirit  up. 


288  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Rest,  then,  sister,  on  the  bosom 
Of  thy  kind  and  heav'nly  friend ; 

Christ  the  Lord  has  been  thy  ransom, 
Oh  how  joyous  such  an  end ! 

Farewell,  then,  but  not  forever, 
Soon  to  us  the  call  will  come ; 

Then  we'll  meet,  no  more  to  sever, 
Meet  within  our  Father's  home. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  289 


If  it  is  Thy  Will,  Oh,  Lord! 

IF  'tis  Thy  will,  Oh,  Lord !  I'll  not  repine, 
But  gird  me  for  the  race,  whatever  it  be ; 
Praying  for  strength  to  do  Thy  will  divine, 
And  trust  my  future  good  alone  to  Thee, 

Though  dark  may  be  the  way  my  feet  must  tread, 
And  stern  the  duties  in  reserve  for  me ; 

Help  me  to  follow,  by  Thy  spirit  led, 

The  path  my  precious  Saviour  mark'd  for  me. 

I  still  will  trust  Thee,  though  I  may  not  see, 
Why  thou  art  dealing  thus  with  me  and  mine ; 

Enough  to  know,  God  wills  it  so  to  be, 

Then  humbly  bend  my  stubborn  will  to  Thine. 

I  see  not  now,  but  when  the  vail  is  rent 
That  parts  me  from  Thy  great  eternity  ; 

I  then  shall  see  why  Thou,  Oh,  Lord  !  hast  blent 
Sunshine  and  shade  in  all  Thy  gifts  to  me. 


29o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Gold  Panic. 

HOW    WILL    IT    LOOK    IN    ETERNITY? 

GOLD  !  gold  !  was  the  cry,  and  the  world  ran  wild, 
From  the  hoary  head  to  the  laughing  child ; 
And  so  stealthily  fancy  drank  and  fed 
From  the  gleaming  font  and  the  glittering  bed ; 
And  so  madly  earth  .yearned  for  the  glitt'ring  ore, 
She  sent  forth  her  lov'd,  to  return  no  more. 

Tis  a  saddening  thought  that  our  dying  race 

Should  flee  from  the  gospel  and  means  of  grace ; 

And  desert  the  joys  of  affection's  fold 

For  that  barren  and  dreary  land  of  gold, 

On  whose  rugged  pathway  there  lingers  a  breath 

Laden  with  famine,  disease  and  death. 

But  so  it  is — and  affection's  power 

Will  treasure  a  tale  for  the  dying  hour ; 

A  saddening  tale  of  the  joys  long  fled 

Wrung  out  from  the  lips  of  the  almost  dead : 

Of  the  sorrowful  day — the  sleepless  night — 

Of  the  world's  cold  scorn,  and  its  with'ring  blight 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  291 

And  anon,  though  the  years  had  long  since  fled, 
That  the   lov'd  had  been  written    "The  Unknown 

Dead," 

A  form  seems  approaching  the  dying  one, 
And  the  heart  beats  quick  tho'  she  hears  no  tone ; 
'Tis  a  flitting  thought,  and  death  comes  apace 
O'er  the  moveless  eye  and  the  pallid  face. 

Still,  an  unbroken  chain  from  that  gold'n  land 
May  again  return  to  the  household  band; 
But  not  as  they  went,  without  spot  or  stain, 
Will  they  all  return  to  their  homes  again : 
And  fewer  than  those  will  return  with  health 
And  much  fewer  still  with  both  health  and  wealth. 

Alas !  for  our  homes !  if  the  tide  rolls  on, 

Our  firesides  shorn,  and  our  loving  ones  gone ; 

Gone,  too,  from  the  mine,  the  mattock  and  spade, 

Laid  down  as  for  rest,  the  rest  of  the  grave : 

And  many  a  circle,  forsaken  for  gold, 

Will  be  strick'n  and  scatter'd — 'reft  of  a  fold. 


292  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  City  Bell. 


"TiREAMER,  rouse  thee  !  hear  that  note 
\J  Sounding  o'er  the  hill  afar, 
Bid  it  wing  thy  dormant  thought, 
Bid  it  wake  thy  heart  to  prayer ; 

Rouse  thee,  careless  slumberer,  rouse  ! 

With  this  morn  renew  thy  vows. 

Stranger,  listen  to  that  bell ! 

Speaks  it  not  of  distant  home  ? 

While  its  deep  tones  rise  and  swell, 

Tell  they  not  of  joys  to  come? 

To  thy  God,  then,  bend  the  knee — 
With  this  dawn  present  thy  plea. 

Orphan,  on  the  wide  world  cast, 

Unbefriended  and  unknown, 
Pluck  the  cadence  from  the  blast, 
Ere  the  shades  of  night  have  flown  ; 
And  by  faith  and  humble  prayer 
Cast  on  God  thy  every  care. 

Outcast,  from  a  father's  face, 

Pierced  by  guilt's  dark,  venom'd  stingr 
Bow  thee  at  the  Throne  of  Grace, 
Ere  the  bell  hath  ceased  to  ring ; 
And  when  sorrows  round  thee  press, 
Learn  that  God  alone  can  bless. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Christian  pilgrim,  lo  !  the  light 

Slowly  beams  upon  our  shore, 
Bid  thy  dreaming  pow'rs  take  flight, 
God  hath  work  for  thee  once  more 
Lo !  the  sleep  of  night  is  o'er, 
Leaves  it  thee  at  mercy's  door? 


293 


294  '  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


God  is  Here. 


YES,  God  is  here,  in  this  strange  land, 
Smoothing  the  roughness  of  the  way ; 
Guiding,  sustaining  by  His  hand 
Us  lonely  pilgrims,  day  by  day. 

We  see  Him  not,  but  still  we  know 
We  are  in  the  presence  of  a  friend; 

By  day,  by  night,  where'er  we  go, 
His  love  and  mercy  still  defend. 

We're  not  alone,  for  God  is  here 
To  shield  in  every  trying  scene  ; 

His  tender  care  soothes  every  fear, 
And  bids  us  hope  and  trust  again. 

And  we  will  trust,  for  God  is  here  : 
We  see  Him  in  His  works  below; 

The  bending  heavens  declare  Him  near — 
We  trace  His  steps — His  voice  we  know. 

Then  not  alone,  oh,  weary  one ! 

Look  up  !  be  trustful,  and  adore ! 
He  is  thy  strength,  thy  shade,  thy  sun, 

"Arise — He  calls  thee" — weep  no  more. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  295 


Death. 


On  the  death,  by  cholera,  of  a  dear,  young  mother  and  her 
little  one  of  a  few  months  old. 

DEATH  lingered  awhile  o'er  a  household  band, 
With  his  sev'ring  sword  in  his  chilly  hand  ; 
And  a  wreath  half-formed  from  an  earthly  bow'r, 
He  was  lingering  near  for  another  flow'r. 

Near  a  young  mother  in  silence  he  stood, 
With  a  festoon  lacking  a  flow'r  and  bud ; 
With  a  smile  o'er-shading  his  ghastly  brow, 
He  said  to  himself,  I  have  found  it  now. 

This  is  the  fairest  of  an  earthly  bower, 
I  will  cull  the  sweet  bud  with  the  flower ; 
And  with  these  I'll  adorn  my  festoon  rare, 
The  fairest,  I  ween,  of  the  earthly  fair. 

Then  casting  a  glance  at  that  weeping  band 
He  culled  them  both  with  his  icy  hand ; 
And  scatt'ring  the  dew  from  his  with'ring  breath 
He  left  but  the  stamp,  the  impress  of  death. 


296  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Wisdom  and  Love  of  God. 

THERE'S  not  a  tree  within  the  grove 
That  speaks  not  of  a  Saviour's  love; 
And  every  leaf  and  flower  rare 
Is  pencil'd  by  Almighty  care. 

The  rugged  mount,  the  sloping  hill, 
The  gushing  fount,  the  rippling  rill, 
Each  tunes  a  harp  of  thousand  strings ; 
Each  of  his  Maker's  wisdom  sings. 

The  rolling  orbs  that  light  the  sky, 
And  flash  athwart  the  deep  on  high ; 
All  in  their  wondrous  way  record 
The  love  and  wisdom  of  our  God. 

Day  plants  the  rainbow  of  His  love 
Upon  the  fleecy  cloud  above ; 
And  at  our  feet  the  sun's  bright  ray 
Is  mirror'd  in  the  dashing  spray. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  297 


Man  gazes  not,  but  to  behold 
In  every  work  God's  love  unroll'd; 
Earth,  air  and  water  all  combine 
To  celebrate  His  love  divine. 

Shall  man,  poor,  feeble,  sinful  man, 
Born  of  the  dust,  his  life  a  span ; 
Shall  he  alone,  of  thing  or  race, 
Withhold  the  debt  of  love  and  praise  ? 


298  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"My  Spirit  Shall  not  Always  Strive  with 

Man." 


GENESIS  vi :  3. 

OH,  soul,  to  thee  a  point  of  time, 
The  fraction  of  a  thought, 
Decides  thy  destiny  sublime, 
Marks  thy  eternal  lot. 

That  point  may  He  midst  peaceful  scenes, 

Lie  on  the  field  of  strife; 
Or  where  the  sinking  ship  careens 

With  all  her  thronging  life. 

That  point  may  be  a  gilded  hall, 

Where  wit  and  beauty  shine; 
Or  tiny  niche,  where  mercy's  call 

May  never  more  be  thine. 

That  point  of  time — oh,  soul,  who  knows 

How  near  it  lies  to  thee; 
How  soon  probation  here  may  close, 

How  near  thy  end  may  be? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  299 


Of  Rest. 


BEAUTY  is  molded  on  that  marble  brow, 
The  lips  are  closed,  the  tongue  is  silent  now ; 
Each  feature  speaks  of  rest,  so  calm,  so  sweet — 
A  rest  above,  where  love  and  beauty  meet. 

We  may  not  break  that  calm,  that  sweet  repose, 
Nor  bid  those  death-sealed  eyes  again  unclose ; 
We  may  not  kiss  apart  those  lips  so  white, 
Nor  bring  the  spirit  back  from  realms  of  light 


300  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Last  of  the  Naticks. 

TT^HERE  are  the  friends  that  glided 
M     Along  thy  youthful  path, 
When  the  beacon  fires  were  lighted 

In  triumph  or  in  wrath  ? 
Where,  where  thy  fierce  companion, 

That  strode  the  hunting  plot ; 
And  where  the  black-eyed  maiden 

That  graced  thy  Indian  hut? 

Last  of  a  fallen  nation, 

No  messmate  at  thy  side, 
Alone  on  life's  broad  ocean 

Thy  lonely  bark  must  glide ; 
Dark  clouds  are  gath'ring  o'er  thee, 

Bleak  winds  around  thee  blow  ; 
And  the  breakers  of  mortality 

Already  dash  thy  prow. 

The  hopes  that  cheer'd  thy  childhood, 

And  nerved  thy  matron  arm, 
Have  fled  down  life's  ebbing  flood 

With  every  brilliant  charm  ; 
And  thou,  sad,  lonely  pilgrim, 

Bereft  of  all  that's  dear, 
Will  soon  be  number'd  with  them ; 

No  rest  for  thee  is  here. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  301 


The  annals  of  thy  nation, 

Oh,  speak  they  not  of  fame  ? 
Of  lofty  thought  and  action, 

To  gain  a  deathless  name? 
Even  those,  thy  haughty  chieftain, 

Thy  warrior  and  thy  sage, 
Have  passed   o'er  death's  cold  fountain 

From  off  life's  busy  stage. 

But  does  thy  vision  greet  them 

Beyond  the  briny  deep, 
Where  shouts  of  absent  huntsmen 

Through  lofty  forests  sweep  ? 
Do  joyous  sounds  of  feasting 

Fall  sweetly  on  thy  ear, 
Filling  thy  lonely  dwelling 

With  hopes  of  future  cheer? 

Far  more  bright  and  glorious, 

Beyond  old  Jordan's  tide, 
Are  mansions  for  the  righteous, 

Who  in  the  Lord  have  died ; 
No  other  bliss  is  real, 

No  other  home  is  sure ; 
Then  quit  those  dreams  ideal, 

And  seek  that  better  shore, 


302  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Pass'd  home  at  last,  poor  Natick, 

Gather'd  with  those  of  yore, 
And  joined  thy  tribal  music 

Upon  the  other  shore ; 
May  heaven  be  forgiving 

If  we  have  been  severe 
To  thee,  as  fellow-being, 

Upon  our  Father's  sphere. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  303 


The  Dead  Sea. 


I  WOULD  not  wish  that  wave  to  thread, 
Or  breathe  its  tainted  air; 
The  curse  of  God  sank  deep  its  bed, 
And  spread  its  billows  there. 

And  o'er  that  dark  and  briny  grave 

The  curse  is  resting  still ; 
No  wing  may  safely  skim  its  wave, 

No  life  its  bosom  thrill. 

Man  may  not  tread  too  daringly 

Where  God  has  set  His  seal; 
Nor  dive  for  hidden  mystery 

Where  He  conceals  His  will. 

Enough  !  the  monument  of  sin 

Is  its  dark  bosom  wide; 
And  death  and  desolation  reign 

Deep  in  its  pond'rous  tide. 


J04  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


For  Me  Christ  Wept  and  Groaned  and  Died. 

\TlGHT  cast  his  veil  athwart  the  earth, 
1.1  And  hush'd  the  swelling  tide  of  mirth, 

And  clos'd  the  lip  of  scorn ; 
While  from  the  mountain's  deep  recess, 
There  came  a  voice,  with  pow'r  to  bless 

The  heart  with  sorrow  torn. 

But  hark !  that  voice  is  silent  now, 
And  from  the  mountain's  lofty  brow, 

The  Saviour  passes  down  : 
Not  for  himself,  in  pleadings  low, 
Did  he,  the  suff 'ring  Saviour  bow 
In  deserts  dark  and  lone. 

Maker  of  worlds  hung  out  on  high, 
And  kindled  by  his  burning  eye, 

He  was,  ere  worlds  began  : 
But  when  by  sin,  our  nature  fell, 
Jesus  was  pleased  with  man  to  dwell, 

And  suffer  death  for  man. 

For  me,  he  trod  the  desert  wild, 

For  me,  he  wept  and  groan'd  and  toil'd, 

For  me,  his  hours  of  care : 
For  me,  a  captive,  he  was  led, 
For  me,  on  Calvary,  he  bled, 

For  me, — his  dying  prayer. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  305 


Mght. 

HHYPE  of  the  silent  tomb ! 
1    Its  darkness  and  its  gloom — 
At  day's  departing  flight, 
We  hail  thy  mystic  light — 
Though  clad  in  sable  garb, 
Thou  art  welcome  still. 

For  thee  in  chaplets  rare, 
We'll  twine  star  after  star ; 
And  gild  each  ebon  thread 
With  dew-drops  from  the  mead, 
Weaving,  in  moonlight  soft, 
A  crown  surpassing  fair. 

Though  darkness  wreathes  thy  brow ; 

And  blackness,  even  now, 

Is  hov'ring  far  and  near, 

So  like  the  pall  and  bier; 

Yet  many  weary  hearts 

Have  look'd,  and  long'd  for  thee. 

Oh,  thou  strange  mystic  spell ! 
Whose  power,  Who  can  tell  ? 
E'en  from  day's  burning  car, 
We  watch'd  thy  progress  far, 
Likeness  of  all  that's  sad, 
Yet  silent  as  the  tomb. 


306  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Night,  thou  art  so  awful  !„ 
Dread  and  gloom  most  fearful, 
Mingling  in  mystic  dance 
Throughout  thy  broad  expanse, 
Speak  not  the  tender  hope, 
That  gilds  the  brow  of  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  307 


The  Glory  of  the  Heavens. 

"  A  little  below  Thabit,  in  the  sword  of  Orion,  is  a  remarkable 
nebulous  appearance.  With  a  good  telescope  an  apparent  open- 
ing is  discovered,  through  which,  as  through  a  window,  we  seem 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  other  heavens,  and  brighter  regions  beyond. 
—Elihu  Burritt. 


'THERE'S  hid  'neath  Orion's  glitt'ring  sword, 
1        A  door  to  another  heav'n ; 
Where  brighter  worlds,  far  hence,  are  stored, 
Than  to  mortal  sight  are  giv'n. 

If  far  beyond,  where  the  eye  can  scan, 
Worlds  roll  in  countless  numbers, 

How  very  small  is  feeble  man  ! 
Who,  thus,  the  earth  encumbers. 

And  very  great  must  that  Being  be  ! 

Who  spoke  those  worlds  from  nothing; 
And  flung  them  on  their  orbits  free, 

In  ceaseless  course  revolving. 


3o8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

And  very  tiny,  my  child,  art  thou, 
Compared  with  God's  creation, 

Go,  lowly  at  His  footstool  bow, 
In  humble  adoration. 

Remember  that  God's  all-searching  eye 
Surveys  His  vast  dominion  : 

Nothing  so  small,  so  low,  so  high, 
But  moves  beneath  His  vision. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  309 


Our  Friends  Depart  and  Are  Not. 

HE  is  in  the  silent  grave, 
Laid  away  so  dark  and  deep, 
Where  the  willow  branches  wave, 

And  the  winds  their  vigils  keep  ; 
And  I  bend  me  o'er  the  sod, 

In  my  agony  and  fear  ; 
For  so  rough  has  been  the  road, 
Water'd  by  the  burning  tear. 

And  I  think  upon  the  day, 

When  the  chilly  wave  of  death 

Bore  the  spirit-part  away, 

On  the  wings  of  love  and  faith  ; 

o 

And  my  heart  stands  still,  stone  still, 
And  my  pulse  forgets  to  beat, 

While  a  trembling  death-like  chill 
Whispers  me,  "  He  was  thy  mate." 

Then  arousing  from  the  past, 

I  repeat  the  name  so  dear, 
While  the  bitter  tears  fall  fast ; 

But  my  loved  one  does  not  hear — 
Oh,  for  one  word,  just  one  !  ONE  ! 

From  the  home  beyond  the  tomb, 
Where  onr  absent  one  has  gone  ; 

But,  alas  !  it  does  not  come  ! 


310  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


But  there  rests  on  all  a  shroud, 

Since  the  Father  left  his  band, 
For  the  world  where  sweeps  no  cloud 

From  this  dark  and  stormy  land — 
And  with  weeping  heart  and  faint, 

Came  the  loving  trio-band, 
To  the  stream,  where  pass'd  the  saint, 

To  that  bright  and  better  land. 

But  one  dainty,  little  foot 

Paus'd  a  moment  on  the  shore, 
While  she  launch'd  her  tiny  boat, 

And  we  saw  her  form  no  more ; 
Yet  there  linger'd,  on  the  breath 

Of  a  Sabbath  morning  calm, 
A  voice,  "  This  is  not  death 

It  is  only  going  home." 

And  we  tried  to  shield  our  eyes 

From  the  misty  shroud  of  death, 
And  look  into  the  skies, 

Where  life  is  more  than  breath ; 
But  the  yearning  heart  will  bleed, 

For  the  loved  ones  pass'd  away, 
Although  we  know  their  meed, 

Is  a  life  of  endless  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  311 


Life's  Path. ' 

OH !  if  life's  path  is  thorny, 
And  all  clouded  be  her  sky ; 
And  tiresome  be  the  journey, 

And  dark  tempests  hover  nigh ; 
'Tis  a  little  moment  only, 

And  those  clouds  will  pass  away, 
And  supbeams  of  Eternity 

Will  unfold  a  brilliant  day. 

Oh,  sweet  the  rest  of  even ! 

When  the  toils  of  day  are  done ; 
But  sweeter  far,  in  heaven, 

Is  the  rest  to  toil  unknown  ; 
And  if  sunshine,  brightly  gleaming 

On  our  solitude,  be  sweet, 
Sweeter  far,  the  glory  beaming, 

Where  the  smiles  of  heaven  meet. 

If  sweet  to  meet  the  household, 

Woven  by  affection's  chain ; 
Sweeter  in  the  shepherd's  fold, 

To  join  with  the  ransomed  train ; 
If  'tis  sweet  to  mingle  voices, 

With  the  loving  household  throng ; 
Sweeter  far,  where  heaven  rejoices, 

Will  be  peal'd  redemption's  song. 


312  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


To  a  Lady. 

LADY,  where  sleeps  the  ice-berg 
In  its  cold  forbidding  might, 
Now  weaving  out  its  net-work 
In  heaven's  refulgent  light; 
Where  sweeps  the  stern  Boreas 

With  its  wing  of  fearful  dread, 
They  say  thy  lord  is  wand'ring; 
If  not  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Lady,  the  sea  is  fickle, 

And  strangely  unfeeling,  too  • 
Now  nobly  speeding  onward, 

With  her  loving,  anxious  ci*ew  ; 
And  then  so  sadly  lonesome, 

Where  her  caverns  lie  so  deep, 
She  gathers  to  her  bosom, 

The  noble  majestic  bark. 

But  though  the  sea  is  fickle, 

And  its  whispers  end  in  howls  ; 
Though  its  foam-crest  mounts  to  heav'n, 

And  the  dark  storm  round  it  prowls  ; 
There's  one  who  curbs  the  ocean, 

In  its  turbulence  and  rage  ; 
That  One  can  steer  the  vessel, 

In  its  frigid  pilgrimage. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.    '  313 


Lady,  that  One  is  o'er  us ! 

His  loved  eye  is  bending  down ; 
And  life  to  Him  is  precious, 

From  the  prison  to  the  crown ; 
Man's  aid  avails  thee  nothing, 

If  thy  God,  to  bless  deny, 
Go,  humbly  crave  a  blessing, 

From  thy  Father  in  the  sky. 

No  more  thy  lord  may  greet  thee, 
But  humbly  hope  for  the  best ; 

Still  waiting  on  thy  Father, 

Who  will  hear  each  fond  request ; 

And  let  each  prayer  that  clusters, 
Around  the  loved  mercy  seat, 

Gather  its  sweetest  lessons, 

before  a  Saviour's  feet 


3i4  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Death  of  Moses. 

HE  stood  upon  Mount  Nebo's  height, 
That  man  of  faith  and  prayer ; 
And  gazed  upon  the  promis'd  sight, 
The  fruit  of  toil  and  care. 

He  saw  the  long  sought  plain  and  hill 

In  rich  luxuriance  crown'd; 
And  knew  that  God,  with  righteous  will, 

Had  on  the  nations  frown'd. 

He  saw  with  heav'n-directed  eyes 
Where  Israel's  tribes  might  rest ; 

And  where  each  white-wing'd  tent  might  rise, 
By  Israel's  Shepherd  blest. 

One  farewell  look  he  gave  to  earth, 

'Twas  all  that  heaven  allow'd ; 
Then  to  death's  dark  and  chilly  flood 

The  strong  man  gently  bow'd. 

No  more  to  guide  yon,  murmuring  host, 

His  voice  is  hush'd  in  death  ; 
Lost  to  our  earth — to  Israel  lost, 

His  gain  a  heaven-wrought  wreath. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  315 


Mourn,  Israel,  mourn  !  wi  plaintive  tone, 

Thy  earthly  chieftain's  not, 
But  Israel's  God  can  guide  His  own, 

Great  deeds  thy  God  has  wrought. 

Around  the  bier  where  greatness  lay 
Thou  'st  folded  down  the  pall ; 

But  o'er  thy  chieftain's  cast-off  clay 
Thy  tears  may  never  fall. 

God  chose  the  spot,  and  laid  him  there 

In  Moab's  flowery  vale ; 
And  spread  the  turf  with  tender  care 

Where  sweeps  the  spicy  gale. 

And  o'er  the  spot  a  mystic  pall 
Shall  guard  the  lonely  tomb, 

Till  the  great  Shepherd's  tender  call 
Shall  bid  the  sleeper  home. 


316  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


France. 


POOR,  bleeding  France,  thy  God  disdain'd, 
How  could'st  thou  hope  to  be  sustain'd? 
His  will,  His  counsels  set  aside, 
His  laws  outrag'd,  His  power  denied. 

Thy  voice  aloud  in  rebel  glee 
Was  rais'd  to  boast  thy  country  free; 
Free  from  religion,  free  from  God, 
Thy  way  thro'  sin  and  shame  to  plod. 

And  thou  did'st  quaff  from  out  that  sink, 
Yea,  madly  quaff  and  madly  drink  ; 
Drink  from  thy  laws,  thy  prose,  thy  verse, 
Blind  unbelief,  thy  nation's  curse. 

And  God  has  given  thee  thy  meed, 

The  fruit  and  folly  of  thy  creed ; 

'Midst  groans  and  wails  thou'st  found  thy  fame, 

In  tears  and  blood  hast  stamp'd  thy  name. 

And  thou  art  in  this  vale  of  woe, 

With  none  on  whom  thy  cares,  to  throw; 

No  peace  in  life,  no  hope  in  death, 

What  would'st  thou  with  thy  fleeting  breath  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  317 


Lord!  Teach  us  How  to  Pray. 

LORD !  teach  us  to  draw  near  to  Thee, 
And  humbly  bow  with  bending  knee ; 
Thy  grace  and  pardon  rightly  plead, 
And  crave  the  good  we  only  need, 

Help  us  to  come  with  hearts  sincere, 
With  humble,  penitential  fear ; 
Prostrate  before  thy  mercy-seat 
Lay  all  our  burdens  at  thy  feet 

Subdue  the  sins  that  lead  astray, 
And  make  us  purer  day  by  day  ; 
Strengthen  our  faith,  our  hope  confirm, 
And  to  Thy  will  our  hearts  conform. 


3i8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


There  are  no  Tombs  in  Heaven. 


I  SAW  them  lay  a  darling  son-, 
A  son  that  God  had  given, 
Down  in  the  dark  tomb  all  alone ; 
And  said  with  bitter,  weeping  tone, 
There  are  no  tombs  in  heaven. 

My  loved  ones  in  the  cold  tomb  lay, 

To  whom  my  heart  was  given  ; 
And  as  I,  pining,  turn  away, 

These  precious  words  from  pencil  stray — 

There  are  no  tombs  in  heaven. 

Then  when  our  friends  are  borne  from  sight, 

And  tender  ties  are  riven ; 
When  earthly  comforts  take  their  flight, 

Remember,  in  that  darksome  night,  , 

There  are  no  tombs  in  heaven. 

Saviour,  when  tempests  overwhelm, 

And  we,  by  storms,  are  driven, 
Be  thou  our  Pilot  at  the  helm, 

And  bring  us  to  that  deathless  realm, 

A  tearless,  tombless  heaven. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  319 


A  Mercy  Seat. 

WHEN  sorrows  in  the  heart  have  striven, 
And  all  seem'd  dark  beneath  the  heaven, 
When  not  a  single  star  came  forth 
To  gild  the  dark  clouds  of  the  earth ; 
'Twas  then  we  found  it  very  sweet 
To  kneel  before  a  mercy  seat. 

When  tempests  o'er  our  path  have  striven, 
When  forests  bow'd  and  rocks  were  riven ; 
When  kindly  word  forgot  its  tone, 
And  hearts  seem'd  turn'd  to  living  stone ; 
Then,  precious  Saviour,  at  thy  feet, 
'Twas  life  to  find  a  mercy  seat 


320  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


There  is  Rest  for  the  Weary. 

THERE  is  rest  for  the  weary,  when  life's  toils  are 
o'er, 
Where  its  pains  and   its  fears  shall  afflict  him   no 

more; 
Where  its  heat,  and  its  chill,  and  its  damp,  and  its 

gloom, 
Are  all  lost  in  the  light  that  outstretches  the  tomb. 

There's  a  home  for  the  homeless,  a  mansion  of  love, 
Plann'd  and  molded  by  God,  in  the  region  above ; 
Oh !  look  up,  thou  stricken  one,  those  tempests  of 

wrath 
Will  fall  round  thee  harmless,  if  thy  God  guard  the 

path. 

There  is  rest  for  the  exile,  where  man's  stern  decree 
Can  molest  him  no  more,  'tis  the  home  of  the  free ; 
Thro'  deep  tribulation,  thro'  suffering  and  gloom, 
Lies  the  path  to  that  region,  th'  gate  is  the  tomb. 

Tis  the  land  where  the  heel  of  oppression  ne'er  trod, 
'Tis  the  birth-place  of  glory — the  presence  of  God ; 
There,  no  sighing,  no  weeping,  no  parting,  no  pain, 
Shall  disturb  the  sweet  anthems  that  roll  o'er  the 
plain. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  321 


Death  is  Culling. 

DEATH  is  culling,  culling,  culling  everywhere, 
Culling  in  the  ocean,  culling  in  the  air, 
Culling  links  of  beauty  from  our  household  band, 
Culling  brilliant  jewels  for  the  Spirit  Land. 

Death  is  culling,  culling,  culling  everywhere, 
Culling  noble  spirits  in  the  path  of  war; 
Culling  out  the  wounded  from  the  bed  of  pain, 
Culling  saint  and  sinner  on  the  battle-plain. 

Death  is  culling,  culling,  culling  everywhere, 
Culling  here  a  miser,  culling  there  an  heir ; 
Culling  from  the  ball-room  light  and  flying  feet, 
Culling  as  an  offset  beggars  from  the  street 


322  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


What  is  Life? 


AH  !  what  is  life  ?     A  restless  tide, 
A  turbulent  desire, 
A  stream  where  uncurb 'd  passions  glide 

In  all  their  tameless  ire ; 
A  speck  of  time,  a  fleeting  breath, 

A  gulf-stream  to  the  soul ; 
A  target  for  the  darts  of  death, 
A  part  of  God's  great  whole. 

Ah  !  what  is  life  ?    Like  blooming  flower 

It  decks  our  weeping  earth, 
Like  grass  that  springs  by  morning  shower 

To  die  by  noon-day  dearth  ; 
Like  colors  woven  on  a  cloud; 

We  look  !  they're  here — they're  gone. 
Like  sunbeam  falling  on  a  shroud ; 

A  smile,  a  weeping  groan. 

But  what  is  life,  as  to  its  worth, 

The  brightest  charm  it  claims, 
The  only  good  man  has  on  earth, 

Of  honor,  wealth  and  fame? 
Life  is  the  only  moment  given 

To  mold  our  souls  for  bliss  ; 
Mortal,  it  treads  on  hell  or  heaven, 

Shun  that,  and  seek  for  this. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  323 


What  is  Death? 


OH,  what  is  death  ?  that  stern,  mysterious  thing, 
Silently  moving  on  the  restless  wing, 
Now  seeming  distant,  then  approaching  near, 
That  finds  within  our  hearts  responding  fear. 

What  is  death  ?  we  feel  the  pulse  decrease, 
Now  flutter  feebly,  now  forever  cease  ; 
We  gaze  into  the  moveless,  glassy  eye, 
And  read  from  it  the  truth  "  that  all  must  die." 

Then  comes  the  feeble  gasp,  the  heaveless  breast, 
The  faint,  and  fainter  sigh,  then  all's  at  rest; 
No  scenes  of  earth  can  knit  the  marble  brow, 
No  sland'rous  tongue  molest  the  sleeper  now. 

Then  what  is  death  ?  the  name  with  dread  is  fraught, 
Man  turns  away  and  drives  it  from  his  thought ; 
Creation  shuns  it,  and  in  pain  and  woe 
Still  seeks  a  shelter  from  the  pending  blow. 

What,  then,  is  death  ?  its  dread,  its  freezing  chill  ? 
That  lingers  all  through  life,  and  haunts  us  still ; 
That  clogs  the  life-wheels  in  their  circling  race, 
Robbing  our  earth  of  beauty,  love  and  grace? 


324  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Is  it  the  narrow,  earthy  grave  we  dread  ? 
•The  silent  loneness  of  that  darkened  bed ; 
The  damp,  green  turf  that  shuts  from  light  our  form  ? 
The  chilling  frost,  the  bleak  and  howling  storm? 

Is  it  the  sleep  ?  that  last,  long,  lonely  sleep, 
From  which  the  slumb'rer  wakens,  not  to  weep? 
The  mingling  earth  with  earth,  and  dust  with  dust? 
The  damp  corruption,  beauty  clothed  in  rust  ? 

All  this  is  death,  from  which  again  we'll  rise, 
When  the  last  trump  shall  rend  the  vaulted  skies ; 
Yes,  rise  we  must,  the  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
Will  gather  us  among  the  gathering  crowd. 

And  is  this  all?     No  darker  death  than  this? 
No  broader  gulf  between  our  souls  and  bliss? 
Is  this  the  teaching  of  our  precious  Lord, 
Live  all  for  self,  then  grasp  Christ's  rich  reward  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  325 


What  is  Heaven? 


OH  !  what  is  heaven,  that  world  of  light, 
Unmarr'd  by  grief,  unscath'd  by  blight; 
That  nightless  world  of  perfect  bliss, 
Where  God — The  Son  and  Father  is? 

Oh !  what  is  heaven  ?  no  tears,  no  death 
Shall  taint  the  pureness  of  its  breath; 
No  sorrow  mar  the  joyous  strain 
That  peals  along  the  heavenly  plain. 

Oh  !  what  is  heaven,  that  sunless  place, 
Lighted  by  God's  resplendent  grace, 
Outshining  every  radiant  world 
That  through  His  universe  has  roll'd? 

What,  then,  is  heaven  ?  no  curse  is  there, 
No  pain,  no  sin,  no  grief,  no  care ; 
No  snare  to  lead  the  heart  astray, 
But  perfect  safety,  perfect  day. 

Up,  faithless  heart,  this  heaven  to  win, 
This  perfect  bliss,  this  rest  from  sin  ; 
Shake  off  this  load,  press  toward  the  sky, 
No  more  to  sin,  no  more  to  die. 


326  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Our  Example. 

INCAUTIOUSLY,  we  all  weave, 
JL       From  the  storehouse  of  our  brain 
The  example  we  shall  leave, 

When  we  quit  this  world  of  pain. 

We  shall  drop  the  mantle  here, 
When  we  cross  the  swelling  tide  ; 

Leave  its  folds  to  other  seer, 
Who  has  wandered  by  our  side. 

We  .shall  leave  it  in  this  vale, 

When  we  close  our  dying  eyes — 

What  will  the  example  tell, 
When  we  meet  it  in  the  skies? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  327 


Death  of  President  Wm.  H.  Harrison.* 


LIGHTLY,  tread  lightly  !    for  the  deathwind  has 
blown, 

A  mist  from  the  tomb  o'er  our  land  has  been  thrown, 
A  wise  man,  a  ruler,  has  pass'd  to  his  rest, 
From  the  halls  of  our  land,  from  the  vales  of  the  West 

Alas,  for  our  country !  our  chieftain  has  fled, 

He  has  sought  him  a  home  'midst  the  earth's  noble 

dead, 

Our  great  men  have  fallen,  our  wise  men  have  gone 
To  mingle  their  songs  round  Jehovah's  bright  throne. 

Farewell,  then  farewell !  Oh,  thou  lost  to  our  earth, 
The  hearts  of  our  country  shall  cherish  thy  worth  ; 
On  the  leaflet  of  time,  all  thy  virtues  we'll  paint, 
While  thy  notes  sweetly  mingle  with  those  of  the  sainf 

Joy  to  thee,  Fled  One — all  thy  trials  are  o'er, 

Thou  art  freed  from  the  scourge  that  may  yet  haunt 

our  shore, 

The  crown  of  thy  victory,  at  last  thou  hast  won, 
Joy  to  thee — Fled  One — thy  conflicts  are  done. 

*Sung  in  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher's  church,  Cincinnati,  April  T4th, 
1841  ;  that  day  being  appointed  for  a  national  fast  in  consequence 
of  the  death  of  President  Harrison. 


328  THE  PRAIP-IE  CASKET. 


Call  Her  Not  Back. 


CALL  her  not  back — she  is  sleeping  now, 
Close  by  the  side  of  her  sister's  tomb, 
She  sowed  in  tears,  in  this  world  below, 
Now  she  is  gathering  the  harvest  home. 

Call  her  not  back,  though  that  absent  one 
Has  left  a  dark  void  in  our  alter'd  home; 

Though  this  weary  heart  is  sad  and  lone, 
Yet  call  her  not  from  her  heavenly  home. 

Call  her  not  back — with  those  loving  eyes, 
They  wept  too  oft  in  her  earthly  home ; 

Call  her  not  back — from  those  lofty  skies, 
Where  grief  and  sorrow  can  find  no  room. 

Call  her  not' back — though  I  faint  to  see 
That  precious  one  in  my  halls  again  ; 

Yet,  return  her  not  again  to  me, 

For  my  bitter  loss  has  been  her  gain. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  329 


Call  her  not  back — there  is  too  much  chill, 
In  this  chilly  world  of  sin  and  strife  ; 

Here,  suft'ring  and  pain  through  each  bosom  thrill, 
Oh !  call  her  not  back- — again  to  life. 

Call  her  not  back — my  beautiful  one, 
To  the  mansions  of  weeping  and  woe ; 

She  will  no  more  hear  a  farewell  tone, 
Nor  weep  again,  in  our  courts  below. 


330  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Not  Dead,  but  Sleeping. 

HUSH  !  this  is  holy  ground! 
Tread  lightly  here ! 
Let  no  discordant  sound 

Fall  on  the  ear ! 
For  beauty,  pure  and  bright, 

Sleeps  in  this  bed  ; 
Tread  lightly,  friends  !  more  light, 
She  is  not  dead ! 

Wait !  she  will  waken  soon, 

Speak  soft  and  low ; 
Hark !  why  that  dirge-like  tone, 

Solemn  and  slow  ? 
She  only  sleeps  awhile, 

Just  one  short  hour  ; 
She'll  wake,  again !  to  smile 

In  heaven's  bower, 

Then,  let  the  sweet  one  sleep ! 

Till  Jesus  come  ! 
He'll  break  that  slumber  deep, 

And  take  her  home ; 
And  with  His  loving  hand, 

Wipe  tears  away, 
In  that  celestial  land 

Of  perfect  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  331 


We  did  not  choose  that  sleep, 

That  silent  rest ; 
But  He,  who  gave,  can  keep, 

He  knows  the  best 
Tread  lightly !  angel  bands 

Are  hov'ring  near ; 
She's  safe  in  such  kind  hands ! 

We  may  not  fear, 

We  may  not  fear,  but  still 

Our  hearts,  distressed, 
Scarce  bow  to  Heaven's  will, 

As  being  best ; 
We  walk  but  feebly  now, 

A  cord  is  broke ; 
And  bitterly  we  bow 

Beneath  the  stroke. 


332  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Aura. 

THERE  dipp'd  from  Heaven's  glory, 
.1    A  radiant  spark  divine ; 
With  luster  pure  and  holy, 
In  our  earthly  courts  to  shine. 

Enrob'd  in  earthly  beauty, 

A  wanderer  here  below ; 
A  being  bright  and  lovely, 

Passing  through  this  world  of  woe. 

Tho'  earthly  storms,  grew  darker, 
And  more  sternly  blew  the  blast  ; 

Her  soul  unscath'd,  grew  brighter, 
Sweeter — purer — to  the  last, 


THR  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  333 


We  Laid  Her  to  Sleep. 

WE  laid  her  to  sleep,  where  the  wind-harp  plays 
All  its  lullabies,  soft  and  low  ; 
Just  there,  where  the  sunbeam  in  glory  strays 
Through  the  willow's  dark,  drooping  bough. 

"  Close  by  her  papa,"  we  molded  her  bed, 

When  the  flowers  in  beauty  died ; 
So  closely  we  gather'd  our  early  dead, 

Our  Alice — our  own  darling  pride. 

Oh,  then  let  her  sleep !  till  the  trumpet  blast 

Shall  awaken  her  sleeping  clay, 
Then  rising  to  life,  all  her  trials  past, 

She  will  live  in  eternal  day. 

Oh,  sweet,  on  the  shores  of  the  ransom'd  blest, 

Will  be  shouted  redeeming  love  ! 
And  sweet,  from  the  turmoil  of  earth's  unrest, 

Is  the  home  of  Alice,  above. 


334  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Cortez. 

FORTH  from  the  winter  came  the  rosy  spring, 
Draped  in  soft  beauty  by  our  heav'nly  King ; 
She  lay  one  wing  upon  the  temperate  zone, 
The  other,  on  the  tropic  folded  down  ; 
Gently  and  quietly,  folding  the  dome, 
The  palace,  the  spire,  the  cottager's  home. 

But  see !  on  the  plain  rides  an  armed  host, 
Each  on  his  mission,  and  each  at  his  post ; 
Come  they  for  friendship,  with  shout  of  huzzah, 
Those  sunburnt  men  from  a  country  afar  ? 
The  question  was  ask'd  by  the  lord  of  the  land, 
But  answer  came  not  from  the  Spanish  band. 

Bright  presents  of  gems,  from  a  kingly  hand, 
Were  sent  to  appease  that  warrior  band ; 
Presents  of  diamonds,  of  pearls,  and  of  gold, 
What  were  they  to  him,  that  warrior  bold  ? 
The  gleam  of  the  city  loomed  over  the  plain — 
He  drank  th'  wild  vision — it  dizzied  his  brain. 

Abashed,  we  recoil  at  our  human  kind, 

In  image,  God-like — but  cruel  in  mind — 

Deaf  to  all  sorrow — and  dead  to  man's  woe 

He'll  smile  to  you,  friend,  but  act  to  you,  foe ; 

So,  to  the  new  world,  the  act  of  the  old, 

A  smile,  and  a  kiss — then  the  shepherd  and  fold. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  335 


Imperially  great  stretch'd  that  domain, 
Lofty  its  grandeur,  and  flow'ry  its  plain  ; 
Gorgeous  in  beauty,  her  proud  capital 
Rose  bright  in  its  glory,  above  her  wall ; 
Climbing  far  up  in  the  sun's  golden  rays, 
It  look'd  to  th"  world,  like  a  city  ablaze. 

The  glance  of  a  Spaniard  measures  the  scene, 

Sleeping  in  splendor  all  calmly  serene ; 

Weighs  all  the  glory,  and  paints  all  the  fame, 

A  conquered  empire  would  bring  to  his  name — 

What  cared  he  for  another's  grief  and  pain  ? 

'Twas  fame  that  he  sought — 'Twas  conquest  and  gain. 

Treacherously  cruel,  he  stopp'd  not  to  spare 
The  aged  and  helpless,  the  youthful  and  fair  ; 
Neither  wealth  nor  condition,  fame  nor  renown, 
Escaped  his  dark  ire,  from  vassal  to  crown : 
Secretly,  darkly,  the  meshwork  was  planned 
That  stamped  th'  word  Cortez  with  infamy's  brand. 

There  is  too  much  of  this  in  our  dark  earth, 
Too  much  of  treason's  false  and  blighting  dearth, 
Too  much  of  suavity  'neath  a  false  guise, 
Too  much  deceit  cloaked  up  in  pious  lies ; 
To-day  a  friend — to-morrow — oh,  how  sad  ! 
The  basest  foe,  upon  the  foeman's  grade. 

False  to  himself,  and  basely  false  to  man, 
He  boldly  planned,  and  carried  out  that  plan ; 
Lighted  the  fagot  on  Columbia's  sod, 


336  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Fettered  her  monarch  through  disgusting  fraud, 
Basely  betrayed  his  trust,  and  broke  his  word, 
Let  speed  the  arrow  and  unsheathed  the  sword. 

Trembling  and  fears,  and  hearts  made  desolate 

Pined  in  her  halls  and  wept  within  her  gate ; 

Turmoil  and  ruin  stalk'd  in  broad  daylight, 

Feasting  and  folly  horrified  the  night; 

Driven  to  madness,  Montezuma's  men 

Rose  in  their  might,  their  Sovereign  to  regain ; 

When,  robed  like  monarch  for  a  festival, 

Appeared  their  Sovereign  on  the  city  wall ; 

Each  face  is  covered,  every  knee  is  bent ; 

But  when  that  voice  is  raised,  as  suppliant 

For  those,  his  foes — and  theirs — all   faith  is  flown, 

Another  moment,  and  a  missile,  thrown, 

Has  done  the  deed  of  death;  no  pard'ning  word 

May  ever  mark  forgiveness  on  life's  chord. 

The  snare  was  laid  by  Cortez,  dark  and  deep, 
A  deed  from  which  an  after-life  would  reap; 
The  deed  was  done — th'  message  went  to  heav'n, 
The  seed  was  sown,  the  harvest  would  be  giv'n, 
No  act  can  rub  the  tarnish  from  that  soul, 
It  lives  through  time,  is  writ  on  heaven's  scroll. 

The  deed  was  done — and  to  the  forest  gloom 
Fled  his  sad  followers,  weeping  o'er  their  doom  ; 
A  doom  they  must  accept  in  bitter  grief, 
For  all  were  powerless  to  give  relief; 
A  cruel  tyrant  held  the  reins  of  war, 
And  devastation  spread,  and  ruin  far. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  337 


We  do  not  court  th'  tracery  of  such  scene, 
Only  as  God  appears  upon  the  screen, 
In  his  own  spirit-drapery,  spotless,  pure; 
Meting  out  justice,  ever  true  and  sure, 
To  the  false  bigot  and  the  toiling  slave, 
Drawing  the  line  that  dooms  to  curse,  or  save. 

To  this  the  meaning  of  historic  page 

Owes  its  significance  in  every  age : 

Without  this  molding  Hand  earth's  warring  life 

Might  leave  no  lesson,  more  than  tiger  strife; 

But  God's  unerring  Hand,  ere  all  is  o'er, 

Metes  to  the  miscreant,  justice — no  more. 

Time  sped — the  Empire  fell — death  reigned,  when,  lo ! 

The  sentence,  writ  in  gold,  "  Reap  as  ye  sow," 

A  gold  that  not  eternity  can  dim, 

Turned  its  full  page  on  Cortez'  vision  grim. 

"Reap  as  ye  sow" — the  fearful  sentence  came  : 

"I've  sowed  for  fame,"  said  he,  "am  reaping  shame. 

"The  Empire  lives  again,  but  not  for  me! 

I  snared  the  bird — another  set  it  free ; 

I  strode  through  blood  to  gain  high  destiny, 

I  lost  it — in  its  stead  reaped  misery ; 

Deserted  by  my  king,  to  pity  lost, 

My  life  a  tarnish'd  blank — what  fearful  cost? 

He  reaped  as  he  had  sown,  e'en  here  below, 

A  wild,  ambitious,  selfish,  subtle  foe  ; 

He'd  sowed  the  seeds  of  strife,  wormwood  and  gall; 


338  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


He  reaped  its  bitt'rest  dregs — its  scorn — its  all: 
Left  to  the  darkest  fate,  he  groped  his  way 
Down  to  a  tomb,  unbless'd  by  hope  of  day. 

Of  all  his  massive  gold — ill-gotten  greed — 
Of  all  his  cringing  horde — his  cavalcade — 
Of  all  his  conquered  realms  and  captive  hosts — 
Of  all  a  victor  loves,  and  talks  and  boasts, 
The  merest  tinselry  were  gone,  all  gone, 
He  stood  upon  earth's  confines  all  alone, 

He  stood  alone — neither  from  earth  nor  heav'n 
Had  aught  to  hope — against  both  he  had  striv'n; 
Nor  loved  he,  eitner,  for  false  fame  and  gold 
Had  wrapp'd  his  being  in  a  scorching  mold; 
And  now  they  yawned  ghastly  in  cold,  dark  rust, 
Even  murder'd  monarchs  seemed  to  rise  from  dust. 

And  burning  cities,  groans,  and  cries,  and  fears 
Mingled  their  tumult  in  his  dying  ears ; 
Backward  he  could  not  go — forward  to  tread 
Was  death,  where  he  must  meet  the  murdered  dead ! 
A  fearful  leap !  the  soul  of  that  dark  one 
Had  passed  earth's  bounds — mortal    his  work  was 
done. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  339 


Death  of  Jacob. 


AS  the  valley  of  Egypt  in  loveliness  lay 
On  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  neath  the  sun's  burn- 
ing ray, 

So  zephyry  the  breezes,  the  whole  so  serene, 
It  appeared  like  a  gleam  of  a  magical  scene. 

No  death-wing  seem'd  nearing  that  luxuriant  spot 
As  it  rose  to  the  view  so  exquisitely  wrought ; 
Yet  the  death-spirit  lurk'd  in  the  nest  of  its  bloom 
To  gather  a  flower  for  the  gate  of  the  tomb. 

Full  many  a  flower  far  lovelier  he  pass'd, 

With  the  chill  of  his  breath  and  the  blight  of  his 

blast ; 

But  the  one  he  had  chosen  to  mark  for  the  tomb, 
Was  the  richest  of  virtue,  and  God  took  it  home. 

The  vale  where  good  Israel  had  chosen  to  rest 
Was  explored  by  the  wing  of  this  messenger-guest ; 
One   breath   stayed    the   current  that  so   sluggishly 

roll'd, 
And  the  patriarch's  form  lay  all  lifeless  and  cold. 


340  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  days  for  his  mourning  have  so  wearily  fled, 
And  they  seek  out  a  spot  for  the  home  of  their  dead ; 
Not  where  the  gay  flowers  of  Egyptian  soil  bloom 
Do  they  mold  for  their  chieftain  a  bed  in  the  tomb. 

But  the  dark  shade  of  Canaan,  its  rock  and  its  cave, 
Yield  a  faith  speaking  site  for  the  patriarch's  grave, 
And  so  hither  the  court  in  its  sympathy  sweeps 
To  the  thrice-honor'd  spot  where  the  patriarch  sleeps 

From  the  court  of  that  land  where  the  pilgrim  had 

died, 
Went,  pouring  in  numbers,  strength,  and  beauty  and 

pride ; 

Thus  a  courtly  procession  in  sadness  and  gloom 
Bears  homeward  a  chieftain  to  a  rest  in  the  tomb. 

'Twas  the  faith  of  the  prophet  with  glory  inwrought, 
That  expected  the  prize  through   the  vale  and  the 

grot; 

And  that  mirror'd  around  the  dark  home  of  the  dead, 
The  tents  of  his  offspring  in  futurity  spread. 

'Twas  a  faith  that  outweigh'd  all  the  wealth  and  the 

pow'r. 

That  Egypt  had  drawn  to  her  bright  hall  and  bow'r ; 
A  faith  that  reclin'd  on  a  Saviour  alone, 
And  anchor'd  its  trust  at  the  foot  of  the  Throne. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  341 


Nineveh. 


THE  turrets  and  walls  of  Nineveh  rose, 
Where  the  Tigris  sleeps  in  its  dark  repose; 
And  her  spires  gleam'd  in  the  sun's  golden  ray, 
As  they  rear'd  their  heads  to  the  light  of  day. 

'Twas  splendor  unique,  and  shining  afar, 
With  foot  to  the  stream  and  wing  to  the  star; 
A  harp  rudely  touch'd,  to  whose  undertone 
The  praises  of  God  had  ceased  to  be  known. 

Thus  stood  that  city,  that  valley  of  souls, 
Whose  pow'r  and  valor  encircled  the  poles ; 
Whose  dark  oppression  ruined  her  sod, 
And  drove  from  her  gates  the  worship  of  God. 

When,  lo  !  a  wayfarer  stepp'd  on  her  sod 
With  tidings  from  heav'n,  this  message  from  God ; 
"  Yet  forty  more  days,"  then  the  sentence  dread 
Would  number  its  host  with  the  silent  dead. 

"  Yet  forty  more  days  !"  and  the  echoes  ring, 
Till  they  reach  the  ear  of  the  haughty  king ; 
Who,  leaving  his  scepter,  miter,  and  throne, 
Robes  him  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  forlorn. 


342  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

"  Yet,  forty  days,"  and  that  broad,  sweeping  doom 
Has  wrapp'd  each  palace  and  cottage  in  gloom  ; 
When  a  proclamation  heralded  far — 
"To  penance — all  living!  penance — and  prayer." 

"  Hear!  all  things  living!  your  king's  potent  word, 
Each  man  of  the  kingdom  !  each  flock  !  each  herd ! 
Let  one  mighty  cry  reach  the  God  of  heav'n  ! 
Till  His  wrath  be  stayed  and  our  sins  forgiv'n." 

Jehovah,  in  mercy,  regarded  that  prayer, 
And  deign'd,  that  proud  city  of  souls  to  spare ; 
Though  death  lingered  near  with  the  fearful  Woe, 
Jehovah's  mercy  averted  the  blow. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  343 


Perfect  Rest  of  Heaven. 


T^HERE  is  a  world  where  falls  no  tear, 
J.    Where  the  weary  of  life  may  rest; 
Where  all  are  free  from  care  and  fear, 
And  trouble  can  never  molest. 

Seek,  my  dear  child  !  that  blest  abode 
Where  thy  soul  may  ever  abide  ; 

Th'  way  is  plain  in  God's  holy  word, 
And  His  spirit  will  be  thy  guide. 

Griefs  of  earth  may  not  enter  there, 
Her  clouds  and  her  storms  will  be  o'er ; 

No  sun  shall  blight  the  flowers  fair, 
Nor  frost  ever  ravage  her  shore. 

There,  sweet  child !  is  a  home  for  thee, 
Heav'n  beckons  thy  soul  to  its  rest ; 

Mercy  is  offered,  full  and  free, 
Accept  it  in  Christ  and  be  blest. 

If  thy  child-scenes  are  rough  and  sad, 
Thy  heart  often  sickens  with  sorrow ; 

If  her  sky  in  darkness  be  clad, 
Heav'n  opens  a  perfect  morrow. 


344  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


When  Darkness  Deepens  on  Life's  Way. 

WHEN  darkness  deepens  on  life's  way, 
And  chilling  winds  around  me  play — 
When  cloud  on  cloud  comes  rushing  by 
Between  my  vision  and  the  sky ; 
To  Thy  dear  cross  I'll  humbly  flee, 
And  learn  to  cast  my  care  on  Thee. 

When  withering  death  with  blighting  hand 
Has  culled  the  dearest  of  our  band, 
And  borne  away  the  rarest  flower 
To  bloom  within  another  bower ; 
Lowly  we'll  bend  before  Thy  throne, 
And  seek  our  aid  from  Thee  alone. 

And  when  disease  with  scorching  breath 
Shall  wing  the  dart  that  ends  in  death, 
And  o'er  these  eyes  shall  fling  a  vail, 
And  bid  these  trembling  heart-strings  fail ; 
Then  in  that  dying  agony 
Saviour,  regard  a  sinner's  plea. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

And  when  the  trumpet  of  the  skies 
Shall  bid  the  slumb'ring  millions  rise, 
And  with  that  note  so  long  and  loud 
Shall  gather  all  the  waking  crowd ; 
Then  in  that  last  that  fearful  day, 
Jesus,  my  Lord,  remember  me. 


345 


346  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


To  the  Mission  Band. 

AWAY !  from  your  kindred,  ye  chosen  of  God ! 
The  field  is  the  broad  world,  up,  traverse  its  sod 
Begone  from  our  bright  scenes — the  home  of  our 

youth ! 
With  the  trump  of  the  gospel,  go !  herald  its  truth. 

To  the  wave-girt  Island,  all  sleeping  in  light, 
From  the  flame  of  religion  to  death  shades  of  night ; 
To  cheer  the  faint-hearted,  to  seek  out  the  lost, 
Up — haste,  ere  the  isthmus  of  life  shall  be  cross'd. 

Arm,  arm  you  for  battle,  then  each  to  his  post, 
Let  naught  shake  your  faith  in  the  great  God  of  host; 
He  will   lead  you  through  dangers,  guide  you  above, 
Then  lean  on  this  Leader,  whose  banner  is  love. 

And  when  life's  dark  storms  gather  fast  round  your 

head, 

And  your  pathway  with  briers  and  thorns  be  spread; 
To   the  throne   of  God's  grace,  then,  in   confidence 

speed, 
Rememb'ring  God's  church,  and  His  cause  also  plead. 

Farewell,  my  dear  brethren,  should  earth's  rolling  sun 
Fling  beams  on  your  graves  ere  your  work  be  begun ; 
Your  place  will  be  filled  by  some  spirit  of  love, 
Who'll  win  back  the  wand'rer  while  you  shout  above* 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  347 


Death  is  not  Feared  by  the  Good. 


OH,  tell  me  not  it  is  sad  to  die! 
When  the  soul  looks  up  to  the  burning  sky, 
And  sees  by  faith  that  around  God's  throne 
Are  gather'd  the  lov'd  from  our  altars  gone. 

Oh  !  no,  it  cannot  be  sad  to  die  ! 

When  we  feel  that  angels  are  hov'ring  nigh ; 

That  the  gentle  eye  of  Holy  Love 

Is  looking  on  us  from  His  courts  above. 

Not  sad  to  die,  when  the  dark  storm  low'rs, 
And  robb'd  of  all  joys  are  our  earthly  bow'rs; 
When  lost  to  us  is  a  loving  tone, 
And  the  breaking  heart  feels  almost  alone. 

But  sad  to  die  it  must  surely  be, 
When  the  summons  comes  to  the  halls  of  glee ; 
When  stops  the  dance  at  death's  iron  will, 
The  young  cheek  turns  pale,  and  the  pulse  stands 
still. 

Oh !  sad  indeed,  when  joys  are  no  more, 
And  we've  plann'd  for  none  on  the  other  shore ; 
When  a  dark  leap  meets  the  anxious  eye, 
Oh !  then,  indeed,  it  must  be  sad  to  die. 


348  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Oh  !  sad  to  die,  when  before  God's  throne 
We  feel  that  we  must  meet  the  injur'd  one ; 
And  hear  from  the  lips  of  Deity, 
"  Doing  ill  to  these,  ye  did  it  to  me." 

Oh  !  sad  to  die,  when  the  tones  of  love 
Are  silent  to  us  on  the  throne  above  ; 
When  to  right  and  left  all  file  away, 
For  a  final  stand  on  the  judgment  day. 

We  are  passing  on,  we  live,  we  die, 

And  the  great  resurrection  morn  draws  nigh.! 

Saviour,  with  Thee,  in  eternity, 

May  a  humble  nook  be  reserved  for  me. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  349 


Our  Departed. 

THEY  live  around  us.     One  by  one, 
JL    They  speak  of  days  forever  flown, 
Of  life's  sweet  vision  fair  and  bright, 
Ere  death  had  swept  away  its  light; 
Had  swept  away  its  light  and  love, 
And  spread  the  pall  of  grief  above. 

They  speak  of  days  that  come  no  more 

To  hearts  upon  an  earthly  shore ; 

Of  gentle  voices  full  of  song, 

Of  sparkling  eyes  and  prattling  tongue; 

Of  days  of  joy,  supremely  blest, 

Of  quiet,  homelike  peace  and  rest. 

They  speak  of  home  and  rev'rent  prayer, 
Of  bending  forms  that  clustered  there, 
Of  slender  hand,  and  meek,  blue  eyes, 
Raised  humbly  upward  to  the  skies ; 
Of  youth  and  beauty,  hope  and  faith  ; 
Alas  !  Where  are  those  forms,  Oh  death  ? 

Those  loving  ones  so  kind  and  sweet, 
On  earth,  alas  !  no  more  we  meet ; 
Hush'd  is  the  voice — the  spirit  fled — 
Fled  to  a  world  of  joy — Not  dead  ; 
Not  dead,  for  oft  in  danger's  hour, 
We  feel  the  presence  of  their  pow'r. 


350  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Not  dead — Dear,  Precious  Saviour,  Thou 
Hast  conquer'd  death — they're  with  Thee  now; 
With  Thee,  when,  oh,  Glorious  Friend ! 
Thou  art  with  us,  unto  the  end, 
E'en  in  the  dark  and  stormy  strife, 
That  tells  the  winding-up  of  life. 

They're  with  Thee  when  Thy  spirit  woos 
The  lonely  heart,  Thy  ways  to  choose; 
When  weeping  sorrow  pines  alone, 
O'er  ev'ry  look  and  word  and  tone; 
O'er  the  last  scene,  the  sad  adieu  ; 
They're  with  Thee  then,  and  with  us,  too. 

So — let  them  stay,  Thou  Great  I  Am  ! 

And  so  stay  Thou !  Oh  Precious  Lamb  ! 

Close  to  us  in  the  peril'd  hour, 

When  death  draws  near  with  chilling  pow'r ; 

And  in  Thy  great  Eternity, 

Grant  us,  Oh  Lord !  a  home  with  Thee. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET  351 


The  Egyptian  Captive. 

*'  An  Egyptian,  who  had  been  a  captive  among  the  Arabs  since 
a  mere  child,  was  affected  to  tears  at  sight  of  a  traveling  vehicle 
from  his  native  land." — Lynch. 

IT   was   far   from   the   home  where  his  childhood 
strayed, 

Where  the  Nile's  laughing  waters  in  sunshine  played  ; 
With  life's  best  affections  all  thwarted  and  cross'd 
As  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  an  Arab  host. 

But  the  cross'd  affections,  though  wither'd  and  chill, 
Were  garner'd  far  down  in  the  heart's  living  rill ; 
For  the  thoughts  of  his  home — its  landscape  and  sky, 
Drew  a  groan  from  his  heart,  a  tear  from  his  eye. 

And  his  own  brilliant  Nile  to  his  vision  rose, 
With  its  myriad  boats,  in  slumb'ring  repose ; 
And  its  flowery  banks  with  his  mother's  cot, 
Gleamed  all  dazzlingly  bright  on  his  exile  lot 

Oh,  how  many  things,  long  forgotten  and  gone, 
Rush'd  over  his  vision  and  stood  one  by  one  ; 
But  his  heart  became  faint,  for  the  scene,  so  fair, 
Went  out,  and  behold !  the  Arab's  tent  stood  there. 


35 2  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Will  it  always  be  thus?  must  this  fleeting  life 
Be  shorn  of  its  bliss  by  oppression  and  strife? 
Must  the  flowers  that  cluster  along  its  path, 
Be  so  rudely  snapp'd  by  oppression  and  wrath  ? 

Will  it  always  be  thus  ?  must  our  rolling  years 
Be  nurtur'd  in  sorrow  and  garner'd  in  tears  ? 
Must  our  God-given  heritage  riven  be, 
On  the  far-stretching  glebe  of  mortality  ? 

Must  our  households  be  sunder'd  by  sinful  man  ? 
Must  our  sons  be  the  slaves  of  a  leagued  clan  ? 
Must  the  brightest  shores  on  the  footstool  of  God, 
Become  to  her  children,  a  forbidden  sod  ? 

Oh  !  our  life  is  too  short  for  a  child  of  clay 
To  risk  his  salvation  for  wealth  of  to-day! 
There  may  be  a  morrow,  but  Where  shall  we  be, 
On  the  great  graded  scale  of  eternity  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  353 


Illiria's  Cave. 


The  following  poem  is  a  narrative  of  the  incidental  surround- 
ings of  one  found  dead  in  an  Eastern  cavern : 

IN  the  silent  gloom  of  Illiria's  cave, 
Shut  away  from  the  bright  light  of  heaven, 
Where  the  Peuka  rolls  with  its  gloomy  wave, 
A  lone,  mortal  with  death  pangs  had  striven. 

Alone  he  had  enter'd  that  dark  abode, 

With  a  pulse  leaping  quick  with  emotion  ; 

Now  tracing  the  path  where  the  wild  waves  flow'd 
Through  the  mazes  of  deep  desolation. 

Then  on,  still  on,  in  the  depths  of  its  gloom, 
Amidst  labyrinth  twisting  and  winding; 

He  marks  the  stalactites  like  nature's  bloom, 
While  the  light  from  his  torches  was  shining. 

Alas,  for  vain  man  !  where  the  Porteus  plays, 
In  the  joy  of  his  own  shaded  dwelling, 

Man  wakens  but  sad  and  piteous  lays, 

While  his  heart  with  its  anguish  is  swelling. 


354  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Vain  he  retraces,  or  seems  to  retrace, 
All  the  paths  of  his  late  admiration ; 

Still  grandeur  on  grandeur  mounts  to  his  gaze, 
Wrought  in  frost-work  of  crystalization. 

But  sad  grew  the  heart  that  sought  under  ground 
For  the  mysteries  of  God's  creation  ; 

And  fearfully  strange  the  footfalls  resound 
As  they  ring  through  that  deep  desolation. 

As  his  torch-light  dims,  how  sad  is  the  thought 
That  must  fitfully  mantle  his  vision  ; 

His  own  sunny  home  with  endearments  fraught, 
Stand,  before  him  in  startling  derision. 


Ere  the  flickering  flame  of  his  life  went  out 

He  had  selected  a  friendly  pillar, 
To  support  him  in  agony  and  doubt, 

When  the  death-dews  should  over  him  gather. 

And  thus  death  left  him  alone  in  the  gloom 
Where  the  Porteus  had  his  dark  dwelling; 

Thus  light  hearts  found  him  within  a  cave-tomb 
Where  the  murmuring  waters  were  welling. 

One  arm  had  encircled  that  pillar  rude 

While  the  death-pangs  contracted  each  feature 

And  thus  from  the  depths  of  that  solitude 
Pass'd  the  soul  of  that  wilder'd  wanderer. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  l  355 

Oh,  if  on  the  heart  of  that  wilder'd  one 

The  day-star  of  heaven  had  arisen, 
And  taught  it  to  lean  on  the  God  Triune 

As  it  pass'd  from  that  cold,  gloomy  cavern. 

Then  short  was  the  death-pang — soft  the  death-bed, 

As  his  faith  saw  the  glorious  region ; 
Where  hunger  and  thirst  are  forbidden  to  tread, 

And  our  griefs  end  in  perfect  salvation. 


356  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Cholera. 

THERE'S  a  stern  and  dreadful  foe, 
Now  traversing  sea  and  land  ; 
Unheard  his  approach,  unseen  his  blow; 
Till  we  feel  his  deadly  hand. 

All  times  are  alike  to  him  ; 

In  the  hush  of  the  dewy  dawn, 
Our  hopes  are  marr'd  by  his  vision  grim, 

As  he  stealthily  passes  on. 

The  noon-tide's  burning  ray 

Still  finds  him  at  his  task ; 
Checking  the  laugh,  now  hushing  the  lay, 

As  he  flings  aside  his  mask. 

And  when  the  gathering  night 
Would  soothe  the  world  to  rest ; 

This  scourge  for  man,  this  deadly  blight, 
Our  peaceful  homes  molest. 

Sent  by  the  God  of  heaven, 

His  mandate  to  fulfill ; 
Oh  !  may  we  prize  the  warning  given, 

And  humbly  do  His  will. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  357 


Shadow  on  the  Wall. 


PAINTED  upon  the  parlor  wall, 
A  tiny  shadow  lay, 
The  image  of  a  little  girl, 
That  stopp'd  amidst  her  play. 

One  look  she  gave — 'twas  like  herself, 

Only  not  quite  so  tall; 
And  like  some  little  fairy  elf, 

It  played  upon  the  wall ; 

So  thought  our  pet,  as  gazing  round, 
She  caught  the  phantom  shade  ; 

And,  pensive,  paused  to  catch  a  sound 
As  o'er  the  wall  it  strayed. 

It  would  not  do — no  sound  came  back, 

Upon  the  listening  ear  ; 
And,  strange  to  say,  it  left  no  track 

Upon  the  plaster  clear. 

And  then  it  was  so  true  to  life, 
Those  little  hands  and  feet, 

With  every  grace  and  motion  rife, 
That  renders  childhood  sweet 


358  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"  And  then,  those  curls  just  like  my  own! 

Surely,  Who  can  this  be  ? 
Mamma,  I  thought  I  was  alone, 

But  now,  do  come  and  see. 

"For  on  the  wall  ;  just  where  I  stood, 

Stepp'd  forth  a  tiny  girl  ; 
And,  oh,  she  seem'd  so  nice  and  good, 

With  hair  all  in  a  curl. 

"  She  did  not  speak,  although  I  spoke, 
And  call'd  her  good  and  kind  ; 

No  murmur  the  strange  silence  broke, 
Oh  !  was  she  deaf  and  blind  ? 

I  could  not  see  that  she  had  eyes ; 
For  only  one  sweet  cheek 
Was  turned  to  me  in  sad  surprise, 
But,  oh,  how  pure  and  meek. 

"  I  play'd  bo-peep,  and  hide-and-seek, 
She  would  not  heed  my  call ; 

And,  when  I  thought  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
I  kiss'd  the  cold,  damp  wall. 

"I  wish  I  knew  how  this  can  be! 

It  makes  me  feel  so  bad  ; 
So  very  much  it  seems  like  me, 

Only  so  very  sad. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  359 


a  I  tried  to  kiss  her  ringlets  fair, 
And  weave  from  them  a  braid ; 

But  when  I  tried,  no  curls  were  there, 
Where  they  in  beauty  strayed. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  Ma,  What  does  this  mean 
This  sad  and  strange  design, 

There's  something  that  I  can't  explain  ; 
Something  like  me  and  mine." 

"  It  is  your  shadow,  Alice,  dear, 

The  image  of  yourself; 
That  little  ringlet  by  the  ear, 

Will  prove  it  is  no  elf. 

"Just  place  this  book  before  your  eye, 
And  then  define  these  scenes." 

I  cannot  see  the  clear,  blue  sky, 
Because  this  intervenes." 

"  Just  so,  my  love,  you  shut  the  sun 
From  off  that  darkened  spot, 

And  what  you  thought  was  elfin  fun ; 
Was  by  your  actions  wrought/' 

The  little  one  has  pass'd  above, 

Where  shadows  never  fall ; 
Pass'd  up  with  her  full  tide  of  love, 

To  Christ,  the  All  in  All. 


360  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Still,  shadows  linger  here  below, 
Where'er  our  footsteps  lead  ; 

Run  we  how  fast — walk  we  how  slow, 
They  imitate  our  speed. 

We  find  them  in  the  gilded  hall 

Typing  each  act  of  ours ; 
Yet,  passing  from  the  canvass  wall, 

As  pass  the  flitting  hours. 

But  shadows  linger  in  the  heart — 

Shadows  of  dark  repose ; 
From  them,  but  ebbing  life  will  part, 

We  wall  them  in  so  close. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  361 


On  the  Death  of  Elytra  Ames. 


HANCOCK,    N.  H. 

A  SLEEP  in  Jesus!     Let  her  sleep, 
JLJL  No  more  to  toil — no  more  to  weep  ; 
No  more  to  faint — no  more  to  sigh, 
No  more  to  fear — no  more  to  die. 

Asleep  in  Jesus  ?  then,  at  last, 
The  goal  is  reach'd,  the  trial  past ; 
The  light  is  fought,  the  race  is  run, 
A  kfngdom  gain'd,  a  crown  is  won. 

Asleep  in  Jesus  ?     Why  then  weep, 
As  though  his  own  Christ  could  not  keep  ? 
Oh,  blest,  indeed,  must  that  one  be 
Who  falls  asleep,  dear  Lord,  in  Thee. 

Asleep  in  Jesus  ?  precious  one 
Sleep  on,  thy  weary  life  is  done ; 
Sleep  till  the  judgment  morning  come, 
And  Jesus  calls  thee  from  the  tomb, 


362  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Mrs.  A.  Ellison. 


MANCHESTER,    OHIO. 

HOME,  sister,  thou  art  home  at  last, 
Thy  griefs  are  o'er,  thy  trials  past ; 
The  goal  is  gain'd,  thy  toil  is  done, 
The  battle  fought,  and  heaven  won. 

Home  to  the  mansion  of  thy  God, 
His  face  to  see,  His  name  to  laud ; 
Home  to  our  lov'd  who're  gather'd  there, 
Our  gifted,  beautiful,  and  fair. 

Home,  loving  sister,  to  thy  rest* 
A  favor'd  child,  our  Saviour's  guest; 
No  more  to  toil  midst  sins  and  fears, 
No  more  to  sow  in  bitter  tears. 

Home !  precious  thought !  and  yet  I  weep 
For  thronging  years  around  me  sweep ; 
Long  years  of  fellowship  and  love, 
Now,  I  below,  and  thou  above. 

There  stands  the  church,  but  where  are  they 
Who  met  to  preach,  to  sing  and  pray? 
The  pulpit  stands,  the  seats  are  there, 
But  where  those  worshipers  ?     Oh !  where? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

The  grassy  mound,  the  marble  spire 

Tell  me,  "  They're  sleeping  here  and  there ;" 

But  faith  points  up  the  shining  road, 

And  says,  "  They're  kings  and  priests  to  God.' 

And  I  believe !  oh !  glorious  faith  ! 
Just  what  my  bless'd  Redeemer  saith  ; 
Those  who  in  Jesus  fall  asleep 
Shall  wake  to  life,  no  more  to  weep. 

Rest,  sister,  in  thy  home  of  light, 
Where  reigns  no  death,  no  sin,  no  night; 
But  one  bright,  pure,  celestial  ray, 
One  perfect,  everlasting  day. 


364  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKtiT. 


A  Dirge. 

THOU  art  gone,  my  gentle  Allie, 
From  a  world  of  sin  and  pain ; 
From  this  dark  and  stormy  valley 
To -where  the  angels  reign. 

If  thy  heart  was  often  saddened 
In  thy  pilgrimage  below; 

All  thy  holy  lite  is  gladdened 
By  smiles  that  round  thee  glow. 

But  we  miss  thee,  gentle  Allie, 
Whereso'er  our  footsteps  roam ; 

And  our  hearts  are  very  lonely 
In  thy  forsaken  home. 


THE  PRATRIE  CASKET.  365 


Too  Frail  for  Earth. 

TOO  frail  for  earth !     Why  wish  dear  Mattie  here 
To  buffet  all  the  ills  of  life's  career? 
Why  mourn  her  exit  to  the  world  above, 
Where  all  is  holy  joy  and  blissful  love? 

It  were  far  better  that  a  heav'nly  hand 
Should  mold  these  budlets  of  our  household  band, 
And  twine  them  in  the  coronet  of  Him, 
Without  whose  ray  divine  all  suns  were  dim. 

And  what  if  choosing  with  the  tend'rest  care 
He  cull  the  fairest  of  our  earthly  fair; 
The  petted  lambkin,  or  the  sweetest  flow'r, 
Bearing  it  hence  beyond  death's  blighting  pow'r ! 

True,  stranger  hands  may  mold  the  coffin-bed, 
And  spread  the  turf  above  the  sunny  head; 
But  'twas  no  stranger  that  from  heav'nly  height 
Bore  loving  Mattie  to  the  world  of  light 

And  she  is  safe  from  harm,  her  suff rings  o'er, 
And  naught  can  mar  her  gentle  slumbers  more; 
Hers  is  the  gain — 'tis  ours  the  loss  to  mourn, 
And  still  plod  on  disconsolate  and  lone. 


366  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


Written  while  Sitting  by  the  Sick-bed  of  A— 

GOD  of  age  and  God  of  youth ! 
God  of  childhood's  guileless  truth  ! 
At  Thy  throne  of  grace  we  bow, 
Bend  Thine  ear  and  hear  us  now. 

Prostrate  lies  that  fragile  form, 
Grappling  with  the  fever  storm, 
Sighs  and  groans  her  language  are  ! 
Precious  Saviour  !  spare,  oh,  spare  ! 

Oft  she's   knelt  before  Thy  throne, 
Plead  Thy  merits,  Suffering  Son  ; 
Let  those  merits  now  atone  ; 
Spare,  oh,  spare,  our  darling  one ! 

Cast  so  helpless  by  our  side, 

On  the  world's  broad  sweeping  tide, 

She  an  angel  seem'd  to  be, 

Sent  to  cheer  us  on  our  way. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  367 


Now,  can  we  the  prize  resign  ? 
Call  this  loved  no  longer  mine  ? 
Pity,  Oh,  my  Saviour,  spare ! 
Spare  to  us  this  blossom  rare. 

But,  if  from  the  shores  of  time, 
She  must  pass  in  childhood's  prime ; 
Father,  Spirit,  Suffering  Son  ! 
Take,  oh  take,  our  darling  home. 


368  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Oone. 

WE  gather  round  our  altar  now, 
A  sad  and  broken  band  , 
For  one,  with  glad  and  sunny  brow. 
Is  in  the  spirit-land. 

We  saw  her  upward-stretching  thought, 
And  knew  that  she  must  go ; 

That  one,  like  her,  by  heaven  taught, 
Could  not  remain  below. 

But  still  we  hugg'd  her  in  our  love, 
That  frail  and  lovely  flow'er ; 

Till  call'd  by  God,  she  pass'd  above, 
Up  to  His  heav'nly  bow'r. 

And  still  we  gather  as  of  yore, 

Around  our  altar-stone  ; 
But  one  sweet  voice  we  hear  no  more, 

One  lovely  form  is  gone. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  36$ 


She  Came  to  Me. 

SHE  came  to  me  in  a  dream  one  night, 
With  her  ringlets  floating  wild  ; 
In  her  eyes  the  beam  of  heav'nly  light, 
On  her  cheek  the  rose-tint  smiled. 

To  my  side  she  nestled,  as  of  yore, 

The  child  of  my  heart's  delight ; 
And  I  gazed  at  her,  so  white  and  pure, 

So  like  the  angels  of  light. 

"  Not — natural  curls,"  said  my  sweet  child, 

"  My  ringlets,  you  cut  away, 
When  I  lay  in  restless  fever  wild, 

Ere  I  pass'd  to  heav'nly  day." 

Round  her  mouth  were  dimpled,  tender  smiles 

Her  eyes  sparkled  brighter  still, 
Looking  at  me,  intensely,  the  whiles, 

As  though  she  would  learn  my  will. 


370  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

I  gazed,  for  my  eyes  refused  to  move 
From  the  face  of  one  so  bright ; 

Though  I  knew  her  home  was  far  above, 
Yet,  sure  she  was  mine  that  night. 

And  I  learned  in  that  short  flitting  hour, 

That  lovelier,  sweeter,  far, 
Is  the  child  beyond  death's  chilly  pow'r, 

Than  the  child  of  grief  and  care. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  371 


The  Little  One's  Last  Sleep. 

LET  him  sleep,  the  little  one, 
Till  the  resurrection  morn  ; 
Let  him  sleep,  he  knows  no  pain — 
Let  him  sleep — he'll  wake  again. 

Wake  again,  to  life  and  love; 
Wake  to  all  the  joys  above  ; 
Wake  to  meet  his  friends,  once  more, 
On  that  bright  and  better  shore. 

Weep  we  o'er  the  tiny  bed, 
Where  thy  infant  form  is  laid ; 
Longing  for  a  sight,  in  vain, 
Of  the  tender  infant  train. 

Gently  sleep,  then,  loving  one  ! 
Blighting  mildew,  burning  sun, 
Cannot  reach  thy  new  abode, 
In  the  bosom  of  our  God. 


372  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Dedicated  to  the  Parents. 

A  TINY  birdlet  with  trembling  wing 
Paused  to  drink  from  an  earthly  spring, 
But  the  spring  dried  up  in  its  earthy  bed, 
Thirsty  and  weary  the  birdlet  fled ; 
Fled  from  our  vales  to  come  not  again, 
Fled  to  a  world  where  lingers  no  pain. 

The  mother-love  had  sped  on  before, 
Leaving  her  young  on  our  weeping  shore ; 
In  haste  she  had  sped   from  an  earthly  blight; 
And  planted  her  feet  on  the  shores  of  light; 
Grasping  a  harp  and  a  golden  crown 
She  whispered  back  to  her  little  one. 

The  little  one  heard,  as  spirits  hear, 
E'en  while  he  lingered  among  us  here; 
Heard  the  soft  tone  as  it  floated  down, 
So  silvery  sweet  from  before  the  throne ; 
He  heard,  and  murmVing  a  baby  strain, 
Swept  up  from  a  world  of  care  and  pain. 

Mother,  young  mother,  with  baby  dear, 
Safely  sheltered  from  sin  and  fear; 
Strangers  we  met  in  the  dying  strife 
That  usher'd  thy  spirit  into  life : 
May  we  meet  again  where  angels  dwell, 
Till  then,  young  mother,  farewell,  farewell. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  373 


Willie. 

"pAREWELL,  Willie  I  God  has  call'd  thee 
JL    Up  to  His  eternal  home  ; 
And  our  hearts  are  sad  and  lonely 
Since  we  laid  thee  in  the  tomb. 

Not  forgotten  in  our  dwelling 

Are  thy  little,  winsome  ways ; 
When  to  parents,  weeping,  laughing, 

Little  eyes  would  gently  raise. 

Uneffaced  the  heavenly  luster, 
Burning  in  those  brilliant  orbs: 

And  a  tone,  half-talk,  half-murmur, 
Oft  our  recreant  dream  disturbs. 

But  we  leave  thee,  darling  Willie, 
With  the  angels,  in  Christ's  care ; 

And  we  hope  again  to  meet  thee, 
Meet  thee,  darling  Willie,  dear. 


374  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


On  the  Death  of  an  Infant. 


T)RECIOUS  infant  angel,  beautiful  and  fair, 
1    In  our  Father's  mansion  waiting  for  you  there  ; 
Kiss'd  by  heaven's  breezes,  cull'd  as  soon  as  given  : 
By  His  pearly  winglets  leading  you  to  heaven. 

Would  ye  stay  those  winglets  ?     Would  ye  bind  him 

here, 
Where  the  death-dew  chills  us,  and  the  shroud  and 

bier? 

Would  ye  draw  him  downward  from  his  high  abode, 
From  the  joys  of  heaven,  from  the  home  of  God? 

Could  ye  see  the  pathway  he  might  have  to  tread, 
All  its  gloom  and  darkness,  all  its  pain  and  dread ; 
How  so  sad  and  lonely  earth  might  yet  become, 
Ye  would  bless  the   Shepherd  who   has   call'd  him 
home. 

Earth  is  sad  and  lonely  when  death's  icy  hand 
Culls  a  link  of  beauty  from  our  household  band; 
But  'tis  all  so  selfish  !  Jesus  knows  the  best 
When  He  takes  our  lov'd  ones  to  His  home  of  rest 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  375 


The  Voice. 

IT  came  so  very  gently, 
Just  when  it  was  needed  most ; 
And  spoke  so  very  sweetly 
To  a  soul  by  tempest  toss'd. 

It  told  so  very  kindly 

Of  a  Saviour's  precious  love ; 
And  pointed  gently,  softly, 

To  a  region  up  above. 

The  soul  caught  up  the  echo, 
And  whisper'd  the  answer  back ; 

And  thus  from  the  storm  below 
Pass'd  on  its  heavenward  track. 


376  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Two  Missives. 

A  DELICATE  little  message, 
Bearing  the  date,  Ago, 
Was  sent  to  our  prairie  cottage 
When  hopes  were  all  aglow; 
It  came  from  the  far-off  seaside, 

A  fine  New  England  dome, 
Informed  us,  "  A  bridegroom  and  bride 
Would  see  us  at  their  home." 

'Twas  morn,  lo  !  another  message — 

Long  years  had  disappeared — 
It  enter'd  our  prairie  cottage 

With  visage  sadly  weird  : 
As  white  as  the  down  of  eider, 

Edg'd  with  a  ray  of  pall, 
It  bade  us,  that  strange,  weird  letter, 

Come  to  the  funeral. 

Thus  strangely  two  waves  will  unite 

Northern  and  Southern  poles, 
And  darkness  weave  into  the  light 

As  twilight  outward  rolls : 
So  dawn  and  end  of  existence 

Unite  their  claims  in  one — 
Perfect  and  willing  obedience 

To  Father,  Spirit  and  Son. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  377 


So  mingle  the  past  and  present, 

Time  and  eternity : 
Prayers  of  the  weeping  penitent 

With  love  for  the  Deity : 
So  mingle  the  saints  and  angels 

In  all  their  songs  of  praise, 
From  the  loftiest  evangels, 

To  feeblest  sons  of  grace, 


378  .    THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


To  a  Friend. 

Ct  WEET  Linnet,  droop  no  more  thy  wing, 
k)  Thou  hast  a  living  soul ; 
God  bids  thee  tune  its  ev'ry  string, 
Its  passions  all  control. 

What  though  another  soars  aloft 

And  plays  around  the  sun ; 
Thine  is  the  breeze,  so  mild  and  soft 

The  sympathizing  tone. 

What  though  on  mountains  high  and  rude 

Another  seeks  to  shine  ; 
In  valleys  bloom  the  flow'ry  brood, 

And  these  may  all  be  thine. 

And  if  to  deck  another's  brow 

Fictitious  wreaths  are  twined; 
And  artificial  fountains  flow 

Where  truths  should  be  combined. 

Thine  is  a  higher,  holier  sphere, 

Be  firm,  thy  task  fulfill ; 
Sing  to  us  of  life's  short  career, 

Her  cataract  and  rill. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  379 


Teach  us  the  pathway  to  the  tomb, 
To  tread  with  faith  and  prayer ; 

Our  wing,  for  heaven's  court  to  plume, 
With  diligence  and  care. 

And  as  thy  linnet  notes  expand, 
Speak  to  the  mourner  peace ; 

And  smooth  his  journey  to  that  land 
Where  earthly  numbers  cease. 

So  shall  the  wing  that  seeks  to  near 

The  pinnacle  of  fame, 
Soon  learn  that  thine's  the  loftier  sphere, 

Thine  the  more  envied  name. 

Trust  not  thyself,  make  God  thy  guide, 

So  shall  a  perfect  ray 
Shine  o'er  life's  dark  and  stormy  tide 

To  point  the  heavenward  way. 


380  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Burial  of  DeSoto. 

THEY  chose  out  a  gushing  fountain, 
J.        Rolling  onward  in  its  bed  ; 
For  the  tombstone  of  their  captain, 
For  the  record  of  their  dead. 

By  the  torch-light's  fitful  gleaming, 
With  a  slow  and  measured  tread ; 

When  the  faint  moon  ceased  its  beaming, 
They  moved  onward  with  their  dead. 

And  beside  a  leaping  fountain, 
They  rest  the  uncover'd  bier ; 

With  its  rude  constructed  coffin, 
Bearing  neither  sword  nor  spear. 

And  beneath  the  foaming  billow, 
Where  two  mighty  waters  sweep  ; 

Fountain  mingling  with  his  fellow, 
They  have  laid  their  dead  to  sleep. 

But  the  deep  and  stifled  sorrow, 

And  the  pallid,  marble  brow, 
Tell  too  sternly  all  the  horror 

Of  the  anguish'd  spirit  now. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  381 


And  amid  the  watch-fire's  mantling, 
Gleaming  from  its  fiery  bed, 

A  heart-stricken  band  is  chanting 
A  requiem  for  the  dead. 

"  We've  hewn  thee  an  oaken  coffin, 

Our  chieftain,  our  noble  chief; 
And  parted  the  foaming  fountain 

For  its  burial,  sad  and  brief. 
The  Indian  maid  may  not  find  it, 

The  warrior  may  seek  in  vain ; 
The  wave  will  retain  the  secret, 

Though  it  peal  a  funeral  strain. 

"  Alas  !  thou  art  gone,  our  brother  1 

And  lonely  now  is  our  camp  ; 
Farewell,  oh,  farewell,  forever ! 

In  thy  mystic  home  so  damp : 
Our  hearts  are  riven  with  anguish 

For  our  brother  in  death  laid  low ! 
Alas  !  for  our  loving  brother ! 

He  sleeps  in  the  land  of  the  foe."  , 


382  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Ponce  De  Leon  Seeking  the  Fountain  of  Youth, 


HE  sought  'mong  the  islands,  thro'  waning  years, 
A  fountain  of  youth  in  this  vale  of  tears ; 
Where  he  that  should  drink  would  forever  be 
An  undying  youth  to  eternity. 

What  was  it  to  him,  then,  the  golden  ore, 
That  powder'd  the  crest  of  the  Western  shore  ? 
'Twas  enough  for  him  forever  to  be 
Set  free  from  the  rust  of  mortality. 

So  the  phantom  hid  all  the  golden  ore 

That  might  have  been  his  on  the  Western  shore; 

And  the  ideal  font  before  him  gleam'd, 

Painted  on  visions,  but  sketched  while  he  dream'd. 

Among  the  bright  scenes  of  those  brilliant  isles, 
Where  effulgence  reigns  in  supernal  smiles  ; 
He  heeded  naught  else  but  that  phantom  shade, 
Nor  wish'd  for  else  in  the  forest  or  glade. 

It  was  sad  to  see  how  his  hopes  and  fears 
Press'd  on  with  the  tide  of  his  flowing  years; 
In  mountain  and  vale,  in  forest  and  glade 
He  prob'd  every  vein  in  nature's  facade. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  383 


He  prob'd  every  vein,  but  of  no  avail, 
The  phantom  still  fled  as  the  passing  gale ; 
And  his  locks  became  gray  ere  age  could  blight, 
And  manhood  and  day  press'd  on  to  the  night 

"  Be  a  youth  again,"  thought  his  dizzy  brain, 
"  My  schemes  have  all  failed,  but  here  is  a  gain ; 
A  long  life  squandered  since  my  youth  began, 
How  wisely  I'd  act  if  a  youth  again." 

It  could  never  be  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
Where  our  brightest  hopes  ride  on  trembling  fears, 
That  heaven's  great  gift  of  innocent  youth 
Should  re-bloom  in  a  world  that  spurn 'd  the  truth. 

The  seeker  left  us  a  lesson  to  learn, 

How  youth  once  squander'd  can  never  return; 

And  diligent  search  will  be  all  in  vain, 

Till  we  ask  the  Lord  to  cleanse  us  from  sin. 


384  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Indian  Orator's  Plea. 


Brother  •  ^e  white  man  has  swept  o'er  the 

plain, 

As  sweeps  the  dread  storm  in  its  anger  and  might ; 
Our  dead  send  their  tears  in  the  fast-falling  rain  : 
They  weep  our  misfortunes,  our  mildew  and  blight. 

My  brother!  time  was  when  our  numbers,  now  small, 
Could  send  their  loud  shout  thro'  the  woodland  and 
glade, 

And  the  tones  that  re-echoed  the  answ'ring  call 
Were  those  of  the  red  man,  sole  lord  of  the  shade. 

But  that  day  has  gone,  and  the  hunter's  loud  shout 
Is  lost  in  the  wail  of  a  heart-stricken  race; 

Away  from  our  dead,  from  our  bright  homes  cast  out, 
Hope  offers  no  comfort,  earth  no  resting  place. 

My  brother !    twelve  times  have  the  trees  dropp'd 

their  shade, 
Since  the  winds  bore  the  tale — God's  eye  s:ann'd 

the  deed ; 

Blot  it  from  earth  f  No  !  for  the  vow  that  you  made 
Will  live  while  the  hearts  live  that  over  it  bleed." 

'Twas  thus  spake  the  red  man,  the  .warrior  chief, 
Ere  the  broad  Mississippi  bore  off  his  race, 

And  thus  he  unburdened  his  bosom  of  grief 

Ere  a  strange  land  yield  him  a  plat  for  the  chase. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  385 


Alone  Beneath  a  Southern  Sky. 

ALONE,  beneath  a  Southern  sky, 
Amidst  that  crowded  throng, 
There  stood  a  young  and  noble  boy 

With  love  than  death  more  strong: 
Transfix'd  with  horror,  pain  and  fears, 

He  gaz'd  upon  the  scene, 
Then  closed  the  fountain  of  his  tears, 
And  never  wept  again. 

Late  he  had  mourn  Jd  a  mother,  dead, 

And  then  from  day  to  day 
Had  learn'd  the  dungeon-halls  to  tread 

In  sorrow's  stern  array 
But  now  affliction's  bitt'rest  cup 

Was  given  him  to  drain  ; 
He  bow'd,  and  drank  the  dregs  quite  up, 

But  never  wept  again. 

A  dismal  wreck  became  that  heart, 

Just  now  with  hope  elate  ; 
He'd  lately  borne  a  sad,  meek  part, 

Midst  scorn,  contempt  and  hate  : 
But  now  a  pow'r  with  anguish  rife 

Had  clogg'd  the  wheels  of  thought, 
And  bade  the  fires  of  his  young  life 

In  maniac  night  go  out. 


386  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


What  was  it  in  thy  form,  oh,  death  ! 

Thus  terrible  and  sad, 
That  tightly  wove  the  maniac  wreath 

Till  that  young  brain  went  mad  ? 
What  was  it  quench'd  the  starting  tear, 

And  rent  that  heart  with  pain, 
With'ring  the  flowers  of  life's  career, 

To  bloom  no  more  again  ? 

What  chilling  blast,  what  scathing  blight 

Did  thy  dark  vision  bring, 
That  chas'd  away  the  beams  of  light, 

And  left  that  bitter  sting? 
A  fearful  garb,  indeed,  was  thine ! 

The  halter  and  the  chain, 
Thus  round  a  parent's  form  to  twine  1 

Well  might  life's  fountain  drain  ? 

A  fearful  thing  is  thy  dark  plan, 

But  when  in  stern  array 
Man  lays  his  hand  on  fellow-man, 

And  leaves  him  lifeless  clay : 
A  horror  clusters  round  the  scene 

For  love  to  dwell  upon  ; 
No  wonder  heart  and  eye,  and  brain 

All  turn  to  walking  stone. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  387 


Christian  Philanthropy. 


"  The  captain  of  a  boat  when  importuned  by  the  passengers 
refused  to  debar  a  sick  man  from  his  cabin,  but  carried  him  in 
his  arms,  and  ministered  to  his  wants,  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
mother." 

AMID  the  barren  wastes  of  life, 
Where  selfish  passions  rove ; 
And  cold  disdain  and  bitter  strife 
Mar  all  the  joys  we  love, 

How  very  sweet  to  find  on  earth 

One  heart  above  its  sway, 
One  kindly  look,  where  sordid  dearth 

Would  fain  blot  out  the  day. 

And  such  was  he,  that  noble  one, 

With  heart  of  softest  mold, 
Within  a  casket,  rude  and  dun, 

Set  like  a  gem  of  gold. 

Above  the  glitt'ring  pomp  of  power, 

Above  its  sordid  might, 
He  rose  in  that  stern,  trying  hour, 

To  battle  for  the  right. 


388  THE  PRAIRIE'CASKET. 


And  thus  he  won  a  noble  name, 

To  perish  nevermore ; 
To  live,  when  lost  to  earth  is  fame, 

And  tarnish'd  golden  ore. 

To  live  when  that  blest  promise  given, 

By  Him  who  reigneth  high, 
Shall  be  redeemed  in  blissful  heaven 

Amidst  its  scenes  of  joy. 

Alone,  he  stood  among  that  throng 

A  fearless,  sunburnt  man, 
With  arms  of  strength  and  heart  more  strong 

He  met  that  leagued  clan. 

"  We'll  go  with  thee,  thy  boat  rides  nigh, 

If  as  we  now  implore, 
Yon  loathsome  wanderer  you  deny, 

And  bar  him  from  your  door." 

"Will  go  with  me,"  replied  the  host, 

With  aspect  chill  and  stern  ; 
"  If  a  poor  wand'rer  tempest-tost, 

I  leave  to  die  alone." 

And  on,  still  on,  amid  the  crowd, 

With  firm  and  fearless  tread, 
Beyond  the  rich,  beyond  the  proud, 

He  nears  the  sick  one's  bed. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  389 


"  Oh  !  will  you  take  me,  dying  me, 

Back  to  my  mother's  arms, 
That  I  once  more  her  face  may  see, 

Where  dwells  earth's  sweetest  charms? 

"May  I  but  leave  this  storm  abyss, 

Pillow'd  within  her  cot ; 
I  ask  on  earth  no  greater  bliss, 

On  earth  no  better  lot." 

Like  as  a  pitying  mother  cares 

For  .him  her  darling  one; 
So  tenderly  this  hero  bears 

The  burden  all  alone. 

No !  not  alone,  for  angel  bands 

Are  girding  him  around  ; 
Fearless  the  burden-bearer  stands 

By  right  and  justice  crowned. 


&  £?*•?  -•?''•' 


39o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Whippowil. 

OH,  What,  sweet  bird,  is  in  thy  note? 
Whose  wailings  round  our  homesteads  float ; 
Laying  upon  our  joys  a  spell, 
We  cannot  break,  nor  yet  conceal. 

Strange  !  that  thy  simple  quiv'ring  song, 
Hath  thus  the  pow'r  to  shake  the  strong ! 
Hath  thus  the  pow'r  to  pale  the  rose, 
And  bid  the  bounding  footstep  pause. 

We've  heard  thy  notes  in  other  dell, 

Those  notes  which  round  our  homesteads  swell ; 

Have  often  listened  for  some  tone, 

In  thy  sad  lay,  before  unknown. 

Always  the  same  !  so  sadly  sweet ! 
To  our  brief  life,  an  ofFring  meet ; 
If,  to  us,  harbinger  of  ill, 
We  woo  it  by  our  fearing  chill. 

Sad  bird!  sweet  messenger  of  heav'n, 
A  legacy  to  mortals  given ; 
Both  lov'd  and  fear'd,  by  young  and  old, 
Is  thy  sweet  note,  so  sad  and  bold. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  391 


Myrtle  Blossom. 

A  GREEN  sprig  of  myrtle  far  out  in  the  bower, 
Had  sent  forth  one  morning  a  bud  and  a  flower, 
And  there,  all  secluded,  in  beauty  they  stood, 
As  if  no  light  footstep  of  foe  could  intrude. 

When  a  rosy-cheek  girl,  of  nine  summers*  sun, 
Came  forth  from  her  chamber,  as  day  had  begun, 
And  lo,  the  poor  myrtle,  bereft  of  its  bloom, 
Was  left  quite  forsaken,  like  love  o'er  the  tomb ! 

Like  the  beautiful  sky, 'mong  clouds  peering  through, 
Was  that  young  myrtle  bloom  in  its  azure  hue; 
And  far  down  in  its  cup,  like  diamonds  inlaid  ; 
A  beautiful  rainbow  its  colors  display'd, 

But  alas  !  little  flower,  its  rainbow  is  gone, 
Its  dewdrops  all  scattered,  its  petals  all  torn  ; 
And  away  all  alone,  crush'd,  wither'd  and  torn, 
Was  laid  the  sweet  blossom  that  bloom'd  in  the  morn, 


392  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


For  our  little  pet  One,  with  an  eye  for  the  bright, 
Sprang  after  the  flower  with  eager  delight ; 
And  so  roughly  she  clasp'd  the  delicate  thing, 
I  was  forced,  the  sad  fate  of  myrtle,  to  sing. 

But  the  beautiful  maid  has  pass'd  up  to  her  home, 
And  the  little  pet  form  now  sleeps  in  the  tomb ; 
But,  unlike  the  myrtle,  where  love  never  dies, 
They  live,  ever  fadeless,  beyond  the  blue  skies. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  393 


Thunder  Shower. 

DARKLY  o'er  the  nestling  vale, 
Hangs  the  dense  cloud  on  the  gale, 
Held  in  that  Almighty  Hand, 
Guarding  sea,  and  guarding  land. 

Darker  grows  that  pond'rous  cloud, 
Loud  the  gale,  and  still  more  loud ; 
Hov'ring  low,  then  sweeping  high, 
Seeming  far,  then  drawing  nigh. 

Vivid  lightning's  flashing  flight, 
God's  artillery  in  its  might ; 
Clashing,  roaring,  rumbling  still, 
Echoes  back  Jehovah's  will. 

Now  there  comes  a  sterner  war, 
In  the  cloudy  realms  of  air; 
Dying  out  in  distant  moan 
Like  a  world's  expiring  groan. 

From  the  wings  of  that  stern  gale, 
Sweeping  o'er  the  timid  vale; 
God  in  mercy  from  above, 
Stoops  to  bless  us  with  His  love. 


394  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


•Stoops  to  scatter  from  His  hand, 
Blessings  on  our  thirsty  land ; 
Blessings  that  shall  robe  anew, 
Earth  with  every  floral  hue. 

Stoops  to  garner  up  the  drops 
In  earth's  numerous  syphon-cups, 
'Gainst  the  moment,  when  the  sky, 
Draws  her  fountains  up  on  high. 

Glorious  Giver  of  all  good  ! 

In  our  lonely  solitude, 

May  this  night  of  storm  and  gloom 

Point  our  way  beyond  the  tomb. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  395 


To  the  Flower  Spirit. 

QPIRIT,  sweet  Spirit !  all  loving  and  gay, 
k)  Scatt'ring  in  April,  the  flowers  for  May, 
Sporting  in  beauty  o'er  woodland  and  lea, 
Spirit,  sweet  Spirit!  what  flower  for  me? 

Then  the  Spirit  paused,  as  it  sped  along 
With  its  May-day  carol  of  liquid  song  ; 
And  pointing  to  one,  where  feet  seldom  stray, 
Wrote  down  with  his  finger,  "  Humility." 

I  look'd  at  the  word,  it  was  very  fair, 
And  the  flow'r  itself  was  unique  and  rare ; 
But  needed  the  early  and  latter  rain, 
With  constant  labor  to  culture  and  train. 

But  this  was  my  flowV,  through  life  to  rear, 
Thriving  best,  when  bath'd  in  penitent  tear : 
A  flower  that  lives  beyond  death's  cold  flood ; 
Lovelier  far,  in  the  mansion  of  God. 


396  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Violet. 

IN  a  narrow  vale,  where  a  stream  broke  through, 
A  sweet  little  violet  meekly  grew ; 
And  she  said,  as  she  laid  her  head  to  rest, 
In  a  half-curled  leaf,  on  earth's  loving  breast ; 
"  I  can  never  see, 
Why  my  life  should  be 
Hid  snugly  away, 
From  the  light  of  day." 

The  frost  being  keen,  and  wind  blowing  chill, 
She  nestled  away,  as  weary  child  will  ; 
And  gath'ring  the  folds  of  her  drapery  up 
She  plaited  it  tenderly  round  her  cup ; 

And  each  little  knob, 

With  life-giving  throb, 

Slept  cozily  there, 

From  the  keen,  cold  air 

She  folded  her  anthers  more  closely  still, 
As  the  falling  trees  were  heard  on  the  hill ; 
And  she  nestled  her  head  more  closely,  then, 
To  shield  the  treasure  she  had  folded  in; 

And  the  world  knew  not, 

There  could  be  a  spot, 

So  cozy  and  sweet, 

As  the  violet's  retreat. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

The  violet  slept,  for  what  plant  does  not  \ 
And  her  budlets  slept  in  that  winsome  grot ; 
And  the  little  streamlet  murmur'd  a  lay, 
The  ground  sparrow  tuck'd  her  callow  away 
And  the  violet  said, 
As  she  rested  her  head, 
"Sweet  budlets,  lie  still, 
The  storm's  on  the  hill." 

The  night  wore  away  into  broad  daylight, 
The  sun  broke  forth  in  its  radiance  bright; 
The  violet  unclos'd  her  meek- blue  eye, 
And  said,  looking  up  to  the  burnish'd  sky, 

"  There's  no  other  place, 

On  the  earth's  broad  face, 

Can  suit  me  so  well, 

As  this  leafy  dell." 


398  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Child  and  Dew-drop. 

UT  ITTLE  dew-drop!  whence  comest  thou  ? 

Li  Ling  ring  here  on  the  leafy  bough  ; 
Here,  in  the  form  of  a  burning  tear, 
Say,  little  dew-drop,  why  art  thou  here  ?" 

"  Little  maid  of  the  clear,  blue  eye ! 
Earth's  my  home  'neath  the  azure  sky ; 
No  sea,  no  shade,  no  sod,  no  bower, 
Where  I've  not  been  with  my  soothing  pow'r. 

"  I've  given  man  the  pow'r  in  breath, 
Stamp'd  with  my  seal  the  brow  of  death  ; 
Scatter'd  my  mist  through  the  deep,  dark  grave, 
Blessing  alike  the  master  and  slave. 

"  I'd  entered  cells  of  crime  and  woe, 
Spread  my  wing  to  the  sun's  warm  glow ; 
When  night  coming  on  with  chilling  pow'r 
Bade  me  repose  on  this  simple  flow'r. 

"  And  when  dark  night  is  lost  in  day, 
Little  maid,  I'll  hie  me  away; 
Up  on  high,  like  a  gem  in  a  shroud, 
I'll  edge  the  folds  of  a  fleecy  cloud. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  399 


"  And  when  the  thunder,  pealing  loud, 

Is  shaking  earth  and  rending  cloud, 

I'll  come  again  in  the  falling  rain, 

Clothe  you  with  beauty,  feed  you  with  grain." 

The  dew-drop  in  misty  form  has  flown, 
And  the  little  maiden,  too,  is  gone ; 
The  one  through  the  halls  of  earth  to  roam, 
The  other  gone  to  her  Father's  home. 

The  dew-drop  its  mission  still  performs, 
In  the  quiet  vale,  the  blust'ring  storms; 
Weaving  its  crystalline  tale  of  love 
On  lily-cup,  or  the  bow  above. 

The  maiden  within  her  Father's  fold 
Is  trilling  her  love  on  harps  of  gold ; 
Not  like  the  dew-drop,  a  short-lived  ray, 
Hers  is  a  life  of  eternal  day. 


400  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Pond  Lily. 


WHENCE  cornes  the  exquisite  fragrance 
Enshrin'd  in  thy  sleepy  cup  ? 
Where  flower  the  groves  of  essence 
That  yield  thee  thy  nectar-drop  ? 

Far  down  'neath  the  surging  fountain 
Are  fingers  that  wrought  thy  home, 

And  gather'd  sweets  from  the  mountain 
To  perfume  thy  watery  dome. 

The  sweets  from  a  thousand  odors, 
They  cull'd  from  many  a  shrine ; 

Though  flowers  there  are  of  colors 
More  gaudy  by  far  than  thine. 

We  see  thy  artistic  molding, 

A  cup  of  emerald  green ; 
Like  guardian  love,  enfolding 

Thy  golden  grove,  Water-Queen. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  401 


Even  now  beneath  the  bright  sky, 
Through  garden,  and  grove,  and  lea; 

In  ocean  deep,  on  mountain  high, 
I  prize  no  flower  like  thee. 

A  white  flake  from  God's  crystal  throne 
Keeps  guard  within  thy  flower-cup  ; 

And  'boss'd  far  down,  within  thy  urn, 
Is  the  mystic  germ  roll'd  up. 


402  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Queen  Rose. 

A  FLOWER-SPIRIT  paused  one  day 
Near  where  a  landscape  stretch'd  away ; 
From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 
She  spread  a  variegated  vest. 
The  rose-bush  look'd  upon  the  scene, 
And  craved  the  honor  of  a  queen. 

Well  pleased,  the  spirit  sweetly  smiled, 
And  named  the  rose  her  ruling  child ; 
Bidding  her  choose  her  own  defense 
She  pass'd  her  a  prismatic  lens, 
From  which  to  choose  the  colors  rare 
That  best  befit  a  queen  so  fair. 

But  thoughtfully  the  rose-bush  stood, 
Then  said,  "  I'll  save  my  strong,  firm  wood ; 
For  this  green  vesture  that  I  wear 
I'll  stud  with  prickles  sharp  and  rare ; 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  403 

In  this  I'll  wrap   each  flexile  stem 
To  shield  my  royal  diadem : 
And  thus  protected  everywhere 
I'll  boldly  say  to  all,  Beware!" 

She  ceas'd,  survey'd  the  color'd  roll, 
And  pertly  answer'd,  "  I'll  take  all ;" 
And  so  the  queenly  rose  took  all, 
In  the  black,  mournful,  draping  pall : 
And  from  these  blending  colors  rose 
Up  to  the  pure,  white  drifting  snows, 
Where  all  were  missing — there  she  stood 
Till  she  had  won  a  white  rosebud 

And  then  she  sought  the  world  alone, 
Except  where  spread  a  frigid  zone — 
But  round  the  North  and  Southern  poles 
Her  sweetest  perfume  never  falls : 
And  yet  we  let  her  take  the  lead 
Where'er  we  stay,  where'er  we  tread : 
In  all  places,  every  scene, 
We  all  acknowledge  Rose  the  Queen. 

She  asks  not  culture — asks  but  room 
Where  she  may  sweetly  smile  and  bloom  • 
In  forest  shades,  on  flow'ry  meads, 
With  rare  exotics,  or  with  weeds, 
She  is  the  same  bright  smiling  rose, 
Wherever  her  sweet  buds  unclose : 


404  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


And  in  her  simple,  native  state, 
She  is  herself  the  most  complete ; 
No  cultured  art  can  rear  so  well 
The  rose  as  the  sequester'd  dell. 

Bloom  on,  sweet  rose,  bloom  ever  on ! 
We  want  thee  on  our  shaven  lawn, 
We  want  thee  by  each  laving  bath, 
We  want  thee  by  the  bridle-path, 
We  want  thee  on  the  mount  and  moor, 
We  want  thee  most  by  cottage  door. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  405 


Breeze. 

WHO  art  thou,  that  on  my  solitude  steals, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  bygone  day ; 
Thy  presence  no  form  to  my  vision  reveals, 
No  footprints  to  mark  out  thy  way. 

We  trace  thy  flight  by  the  tones  of  thy  song, 

As  they  roll  thro'  the  airy  deep ; 
Now  fitfully  short,  now  plaintively  long, 

Through  cavern  and  crevice  they  sweep. 

But,  hark !  it  is  gone — that  long  ling'ring  blast, 
•  Not  a  sigh  in  the  vale  sweeps  by  ; 
Who  art  thou,  that  thus  on  my  pathway  pass'd 
With  a  wail  and  a  pensive  sigh  ? 

Then  a  murm'ring  tone  round  our  homestead  stole, 

In  the  hush  of  the  stilly  night ; 
But  the  wail  was  more  like  the  death-bell's  toll, 

In  its  sad,  mysterious  flight. 


4o6  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


But  it  answered  loud  to  my  earnest  call, 

As  it  smote  the  foaming  billow; 
"  I  am  the  breeze !  "  and  it  danced  in  the  hall, 

With  a  deep  and  mournful  bellow. 

And  again  it  whistled  a  song  so  loud, 

As  it  flitted  o'er  the  ice-plain  ; 
Then  shaking  the  tree,  and  whirling  the  cloud, 

It  danced  with  the  sleet  and  the  rain. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  407 


The  Fan  Palm. 

"  The  body  of  this  tree  grows  to  the  height  of  sixty  or  seventy 
feet,  straight  as  a  ship's  mast,  without  a  limb  or  leaf  till  you  reach 
the  top,  where  is  an  immense  tuft  of  leaves,  each  of  which  is  capa- 
ble of  covering  six  or  eight  persons. 

"  The  stalk  of  these  leaves  is  said  to  clasp  the  tree  and  bend  out- 
ward with  a  graceful  curve.  When  the  tree  is  about  fifty  years  old, 
a  cone  rises  from  the  center  of  the  tuft,  gradually  enlarging  until 
it  bursts  with  a  tremendous  explosion,  displaying  to  the  enraptured 
view  a  vast  conical  flower,  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  in  height,  and  ten 
or  twelve  in  diameter. 

"  This  flower  is  yellow  and  very  magnificent,  but  the  tree  blooms 
only  once,  and  then  begins  to  decay." 

FAR  above  the  heaving  ocean, 
Where  exquisite  beauty  reigns ; 
God  has  fix'd  thy  sure  foundation, 
'Midst  the  verdure  of  the  plains. 

Tow'ring  upward  toward  the  heaven, 
Crown'd  with  nature's  brightest  green ; 

Like  a  queen  to  mortals  given, 
Thou  art,  to  the  flow'ring  train. 


4o8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Lo !  while  yet  the  eye  is  ling'ring 

On  thy  bloomless  solitude, 
From  thy  cone  a  flower  comes  springing, 

Brightest  of  the  blooming  wood. 

Nodding  in  the  gorgeous  drapery, 
That  bedecks  thy  queenly  head  ; 

Bearing  once  the  crown  of  victory, 
Then  to  mingle  with  the  dead. 

Many  men  for  regal  splendor, 

Seek  earth's  fading  diadem  ; 
But  the  crown  that  fades  shall  never 

Wait  the  good  in  heaven's  realm. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  409 


The  Frost  King. 

OH,  thou  cold-hearted  enemy  ! 
Thou  hast  bitten  my  lemon-tree, 
It  look'd  so  fair  on  yester-eve, 
I  fain  thought  thou  wouldst  let  it  live. 

But  thou  hast  been  here  with  thy  stealthy  tread, 
And  now  that  tree  is  dead,  dead,  dead ! 
And  while  o'er  my  loss  I  ponder, 
Thou  attemptst  to  bite  my  finger. 

And  here,  thou  shakest  thy  white  beard, 
O'er  the  very  flowers  my  hands  have  reared ; 
I  wish  thou  hadst  kept  thy  frosty  breath 
Away  from  my  flowers,  thou  worker  of  death. 


410  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Flowers. 


YE  are  so  bright  and  beautiful, 
So  lovely,  fresh,  and  gay, 
Looking  so  glad  and  hopeful, 
Upon  life's  stormy  way. 

Ye  are  like  the  young  in  childhood, 
When  hope's  enchanting  ray 

Gilds  the  mountain,  vale  and  flood, 
With  joys  too  pure  to  stay. 

Ye  are  like  them  in  your  fragrance, 
When  their  early,  lovely  youth 

Is  given  to  Omnipotence, 
In  trustful,  humble  truth. 

Ye  are  like  them  in  your  frailty, 

Blooming  but  to  decay; 
E'en  in  your  brightest  gayety, 

To  die  and  pass  away. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  411 


Beauty. 

THERE  is  beauty  in  the  sun, 

As  he  walketh  in  his  might, 
With  his  beams  around  him  flung, 
In  their  radiating  light. 

There  is  beauty  in  the  cloud, 

With  its  light  and  fleecy  form ; 
As  out  the  vapory  shroud, 
It  pours  the  sweeping  storm. 

There  is  beauty  in  the  sky, 

When  the  daylight  disappears ; 

And  the  ebon  vault  on  high 
Is  be-stud  with  burning  stars. 

And,  when  the  earliest  morn 

Has  his  dazzling  locks  up-flung, 
Oh,  there's,  beauty  in  its  dawn  ! 
And  there's  beauty  in  its  song ! 

There  is  beauty  in  each  star, 
As  it  mingles  light  with  light, 

Weaving  gems  surpassing  fair, 
For  the  coronet  of  night. 


4i2  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Beauty  reigns  in  sea  and  bow'r 
High  and  holy,  awful,  dread ; 
And  decks  the  tiniest  flow'r, 
That  rears  its  blushing  head. 

There's  beauty  all  around  us, 
Beauty  ling'ring  everywhere, 

Full  of  hope  all  glorious, 

In  the  scenes  of  earth  and  air. 

If,  then,  our  earth's  all  beauty, 
Oh,  what  must  its  Maker  be  1 

And  what  that  bright  Eternity, 
So  beautiful  and  free. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  413 


The  Summer  Cloud. 


LO,  upon  the  arch  of  heaven, 
Cloud  on  cloud  comes  sweeping  by ; 
Now,  by  adverse  breezes  driven, 
Floating  low,  then  mounting  high. 

Far  above  the  tread  of  mortals, 
Clouds  on  clouds  commingle  there; 

Weaving  out  their  wat'ry  portals, 
For  the  worlds  that  roll  afar. 

Once  those  clouds  in  scattered  dew-drops, 
Bathed  the  sod  and  blushing  rose ; 

Sparkled  in  the  tiny  moss-cups, 
Kiss'd  the  violet's  meek  repose. 

Where  the  ocean's  foaming  billow, 
Where  the  mountain  streamlets  sing, 

They  have  wrought  a  vap'ry  feather, 
They  have  plum'd  a  wat'ry  wing. 

Where  the  chilly  breeze  of  heaven 

Rocks  the  vapor  in  its  bed, 
They,  in  dark  array,  have  striven, 

In  the  tempest  loud  and  dread. 


414  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


In  the  ocean  and  the  streamlet, 
In  the  mountain  and  the  hill, 

In  the  glow-worm  and  the  planet, 
God  has  wrought  His  sovereign  will. 

Man  is  blind,  that  cannot  see  it ; 

Strangely  deaf,  that  cannot  hear  ; 
In  these  works  so  grand  and  perfect, 

Words  of  comfort,- hope  and  cheer. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  415 


The  Doye. 


LET  me  sweep  one  lament  o'er  the  chord  of  my  lyre 
Ere  Dove's  tragical  fate  from  memory  expire, 
And  tell  how  its  light  wing  left  its  zenith  on  high 
To  unplume  its  bright  pinions,  and  linger  and  die. 

How  weary  and  hungry,  from  out  of  its  bower, 
It  bent  its  slight  wing  over  brushwood  and  flower; 
And  away  in  the  storehouse,  so  snug  and  so  still, 
It  had  thought  to  be  fed  and  escape  at  its  will. 

But  alas !  little  dove,  it  may  never  again 

Mount  the  wing  of  the  wind  and  sweep  over  the 

plain  ; 

For,  alas !  all  unnotic'd,  a  snare  steals  its  breath, 
And  poor  dovey,  forever,  lies  noteless  in  death. 

All  unnotic'd  ?     Oh,  no,  for  one  eye  from  on  high 
Pierces  through  the  far  depths  from  the  halls  of  the 

sky; 

Not  a  sparrow  that  falls,  nor  a  dove  that  lays  low 
Is  unwatch'd  by  one  Eye,  or  concealed  in  its  woe. 

If,  then,  o'er  the  dovelet,  and  over  the  sparrow 

Jehovah  is  bending  the  eye  of  his  power; 

Distrust  not,  poor  lone  one,  for  th'  same  outstretched 

hand 
Is  around  thee,  above  thee,  on  water,  on  land. 


416  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Maude's  Valentine, 
j  

TWAS  a  wintry  night  of  bitter  storm, 
1    Our  parlor  was  lighted,  cozy  and  warm, 
When  peck,  peck,  peck,  at  our  window  was  heard, 
Peck,  peck,  peck,  but  no  sigh  came,  or  word. 

Out  in  the  portico  in  the  dark  night 
We  sought  the  intruder  half  in  a  fright; 
Timid  and  weary,  away  from  his  tree, 
He  came  to  our  window,  that  ckick-a-dee~dee. 

This  was  Maude's  valentine,  timid  and  sweet, 
Seeking  her  welcome  from  storm  and  from  sleet; 
A  dear  little  bird,  with  his  eyes  full  of  light, 
This  was  Maude's  valentine  that  stormy  night. 

We  tenderly  housed  him,  safe  from  the  storm, 
Within  our  snug  cottage,  cozy  and  warm ; 
He  perch'd   on  Maude's  paintings  with  great  self- 
applaud, 
As  much  as  to  say,  I'm  your  valentine,  Maude ! 

So  he  safely  slept  in  our  cot  that  night, 
But  waked  with  the  earliest  dawn  ot  light ; 
And  pluming  his  wings  he  bade  us  good  day, 
Then  mounting  the  air  was  soon  far  away. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  417 


A  Second. 


THOU  strangely  flitting  thing, 
-I    Full  pois'd  on  sweeping  wing, 
Laden,  yet  tireless  still, 
Bearing  us  good  or  ill ; 
Answer  me — Whence  art  thou  ? 
And  whither  dost  thou  go  ? 

In  silence,  stealing  near, 
When  those  we  prize  most  dear 
Are  gather'd  round  our  board ; 
Thou  deignest  not  a  word, 
But  e'er  we  are  aware 
Hast  come  and  gone  afar. 

Three,  gems  they  were  to  me, 
Had  gather'd  at  my  knee ; 
And  I,  in  hope,  had  said 
Life's  path  I  shall  not  dread, 
If  God  will  spare  to  me 
The  father  and  these  three. 

But  o'er  that  loving  group 
Thy  bending  wing  did  stoop, 
And  board  and  altar-stone 
Had  sadly  lost  a  tone; 
But  heaven's  immortal  choir 
Had  gain'd  a  new-struck  lyre. 


4i8.  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Tell  me !  mysterious  guest, 

Hast  thou  no  place  of  rest  ? 

For  thought  grows  blind  and  mute 

Senses  elsewhere  acute, 

Pause,  for  eternity 

Claims  thy  immensity. 

How  far,  how  long,  or  when 
Thy  silent  race  began — 
How  high,  how  deep  its  flight 
How  potent  in  its  might — 
Man  has  no  pow'r  to  trace: 
God  only  girds  the  space. 

This  truism  is  to  me, 

Of  six,  the  Sire  and  three 

Are  on  the  other  side 

Of  death's  cold,  sullen  tide ; 

And  now,  out  of  the  three\ 

One,  only}  weeps  with  me. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  419 


Spring,  1871. 


UP  from  the  bleak,  cold  winter, 
Rideth  the  breezy  spring, 
Rifting  the  icy  fetter 

That  girded  the  fountain  in. 

Up  on  his  airy  marches 

Soundeth  the  wild-goose  roll ; 
Lofty  his  sweeping  arches, 

Stretching  from  pole  to  pole. 

Out  from  her  leafy  pillow 
Wingeth  the  warbling  bird; 

Over  the  springing  meadow 
Windeth  the  restive  herd. 


Down  from  its  lofty  tower 
Dippeth  the  sunny  ray; 

Searching  each  nook  and  bower, 
Where  love  and  beauty  play. 


42C 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

Down  in  the  lowly  valley 
Gusheth  the  leaping  rill ; 

Out  from  the  loathsome  alley 
Poverty  stalketh  still. 

Spring,  thou  art  sweet  and  lovely, 
Bringing  thy  flowers  gay  ; 

What,  then,  must  be  that  beauty 
Where  sweeps  no  wintry  day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  421 


Summer  of  1871. 

O  UMMER,  full  fraught  with  heaven's  dewy  gifts, 
k)  Queenly  munificence  marks  thy  bright  reign ; 
And  from  thy  cumbent  plains  and  mountain-rifts 

Flow  milk  and  honey  for  the  joy  of  man : 
While  groves,  with  fruit  depending  from  each  bough, 
And  vine-clad  homesteads  on  the  landscape  glow. 

Queenly  in  beauty,  from  thy  brilliant  throne 

Is  meted  out  past  winter's  overtures; 
He  wrapp'd  thy  bounty  in  his  icy  cone, 

Weaving  o'er  all  a  frosty  garniture : 
And  silky  down  from  off  the  autumn's  breast 
He  folded  in  for  the  young  birdlet's  nest 

Nature  was  busy  molding,  guarding  all, 

Perfecting  her  gifts  for  thy  oblation ; 
Visiting  each  little  nook  in  her  hall, 

Oft  lulling  the  wind  for  their  protection ; 
And  guided  by  Him  who  rules  over  all, 
He  pass'd,  spring  his  reins,  for  thy  carry-all. 

Summer,  we  hail  thee  !  as  bearer  for  all, 
While  winter  has  frostings,  and  spring  her  flow'rs ; 

And  autumn  unfolds  his  withering  pall : 

Yet  summer,  bright  summer,  we  hail  thee  ours ; 

Each  season  brings  gladness,  and  each  its  grief, 

But  thine  is  the  fruitage,  vintage,  and  sheaf. 


422  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


We  hail  thee  !  Summer  of  seventy-one ! 

We  hail  thee!  as  from  the  great  Creator: 
A  gift  more  munific  than  those  agone, 

Proffered  to  us  by  our  Benefactor; 
Kind  summer,  o'er-brimming  with  nectar-drops! 
Thou  comest  to  us  in  the  golden  crops. 

Thou  comest  to  us  in  the  singing  bird — 
Comest  to  us  from  the  hand  of  the  Lord — 
Thou  comest  to  us  in  the  binding  sheaf, 
Bringing  a  balm  for  the  poor  man's  relief: 
Summer,  sweet  summer,  we  love  thee  the  more. 
Since/like  our  Saviour,  thou  heedest  the  poor. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  423 


Autumn. 


THHERE  is  a  solemn  sadness 
JL        Around  the  autumn  thrown, 
A  certain  sense  of  loneness, 

To  other  days  unknown  ; 
And  yet  I  love  this  season, 

I  hardly  can  tell  why, 
Unless  it  is  the  thought  it  prompts, 

That  all  of  earth  must  die. 

I  gaze  upon  the  woodland, 

While  summer  steals  along, 
And  ask  myself  if  aught  can  change 

A  thing  so  bright  and  strong ; 
But  autumn  sweeps  in  roughly, 

And  with  a  bitter  sigh, 
Pencils  the  grove  with  thousand  tints, 

To  teach  me  all  must  die. 

I  turn  me  to  the  flowers, 

All  blooming  fresh  and  gay, 
And  say,  in  bold  presumption, 

But,  surely,  these  will  stay  ; 
While  gazing  in  the  chill  blast, 

The  frost  king  passes  by, 
And  lays  his  hand  upon  my  plants, 

To  teach  me  all  must  die. 


424  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Then  turning  to  the  green  turf, 

Spread  out  by  the  unseen ; 
I  fondly  hope  this  meshwork 

Will  live  forever  green  ; 
But  autumn,  ever  busy, 

In  triumph  passes  by, 
Crowning  the  turf  with  hoary  locks, 

To  teach  me  all  must  die. 

Then  may  this  sad,  wild  autumn, 

Paint  lessons  on  my  heart, 
To  be  improved  with  wisdom, 

Till  call'd  from  earth  to  part 
And  in  that  better  region, 

Where  all  from  blight  are  free; 
And  death  has  no  dominion, 

Dear  Lord,  remember  me. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  425 


Winter. 

WINTER,  thou  art  ebbing  fast ! 
Into  the  eternal  past ; 
All  thy  sternest  storms  are  gone, 
Never,  never,  to  return. 

Cold  and  dark,  and  storm,  and  strife, 
Have  been  wedded  to  thy  life ; 
But  the  sun's  effulgent  ray 
Chases  out  thy  frosty  day. 

Many  weeping  hearts  have  bled, 
O'er  the  loved  laid  with  the  dead ; 
Winter,  chilly  winter,  say 
What  thy  record  is  of  me. 


426  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Farewell  to  the  Departing  Year. 

T^AREWELL,  thou  dying  year,  farewell! 
f        Speed  on  thy  dying  flight, 
Thou  mayst  not  stop  with  us  to  dwell, 
Dark  emblem  of  death's  night. 

• 
But  pause — thou  bearest  on  thy  wing, 

High  hopes,  and  boding  fears  ; 
And  joys,  we  looked  for  thee  to  bring, 

Thou'st  watered  with  griefs  tears. 

Tie  alter  tie  thou'st  sundered  fast, 

Friend  after  friend  laid  low ; 
And  while  we  dreamed  of  bliss,  'twas  past, 

Or  crushed  beneath  thy  blow. 

But,  Time,  amidst  thy  conq'ring  sway, 

Thou  canst  not  all  destroy ! 
Tho'  fade  from  earth  should  night  and  day, 

There,  still,  with  Christ,  is  joy. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  427 


Welcome,  thou  new  revolving  year  ! 

Thy  flight  is  onward,  too  ; 
May  we,  in  humble,  pious  fear, 

Pursue  our  course  as  true. 

May  God,  our  glory,  and  our  shield, 

Prepare  us  for  the  fight ; 
And  as  we  tread  life's  stormy  field, 

Put  all  our  foes  to  flight. 


428  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Dying  Year. 

OH,  list  to  the  sound  of  that  sad  lullabying  ! 
Speak  gently  and  softly,  the  old  year  is  dying ; 
There's  no  bloom  on  his  cheek — light  is  leaving  his 

eye  — 
Gather  closely  around,  for  the  old  year  must  die. 

He  came  to  my  cot  when  the  stars  were  all  shining, 
And  minutes  of  midnight,  brightgarlands  were  twining; 
Hepencil'd  down  tear-drops,  bereavement  and  sorrow, 
Then  cast  a  dark  veil  o'er  the  face  of  the  morrow. 

He  wrote  on  my  dreams  all  the  life  that  is  flying, 
All  its  hours  of  gladness — its  moments  of  sighing  ; 
And  he  warbled  the  lays  long  since  hush'd  in  my  home, 
Then  he  wrapp'd  a  dark  mist  round  the  brow  of  the 
tomb. 

So  this  is  the  theme  of  that  sad  lullabying: 
Gather  closer,  dear  friends — the  old  year  is  dying ; 
Wipe  away  every  stain  from  his  withering  brow, 
Gently  lay  him  to  rest  in  his  mantle  of  snow. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  429 


New-Coming  Tear. 

IN  thy  out-stretching  hand,  thou  new-coming  year, 
Thou  holdest  a  vial  for  many  a  tear, 
And  laughter  and  weeping,  and  pleasure  and  pain, 
Float  along  in  the  months  that  sweep  in  thy  train  ; 
And  songs  of  thanksgiving,  or  groans  of  despair, 
Measure  time  by  moments  that  silver  thy  car. 

Thou  hast  bound  to  thy  car,  thou  fast-flying  year, 
All  the  hopes  of  a  life,  its  bitter  and  cheer ; 
The  first  beam  of  day-dawn,  the  last  quiv'ring  ray, 
Which  falls  on  the  dial  that  measures  the  day. 
The  birthday  of  feasting,  the  funeral  and  pall 
Lie  folded  together  in  thy  Carry-all. 


43o  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Purchase  and  Unpaid  Debt. 

ON  a  cloudless  day,  in  the  olden  time, 
A  ship  near'd  the  coast  of  our  Southern  clime ; 
Oh,  why  had  she  come  o'er  the  waves  deep  flow  ? 
And  what  was  her  cargo  all  hid  below  ? 

Was  it  silks  she'd  brought  from  that  far-offshore? 
Was  it  laces,  diamonds,  or  golden  ore  ? 
Was  it  viands  and  wines  of  dainty  hue  ? 
Not  thus  was  she  laden  ! — not  thus,  Oh,  no  ! 

She  came  but  to  barter  sinew  and  soul, 
And  drape  Freedom's  brow  with  Slav'ry's  dark  pall, 
'Twas  thus  that  she  came  in  her  fleet-wing'd  pride, 
Thus  did  she  sever  the  bridegroom  and  bride. 

She  brought  thirty  souls  of  the  Afric-shade ; 
The  bargain  was  struck,  the  purchase  made  ; 
But  a  Higher  Source  owned  the  poor,  dark  one, 
So  the  price  was  unpaid — the  debt  ran  on. 

And  our  soil  grew  damp  with  blood-drops  and  tears, 
Which  Heaven  stored  in  the  vial  of  years  ; 
These  formed  the  int'rest  that  man  could  not  pay, 
So  the  debt  runs  on  to  the  Judgment  Day. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  431 


The  interest  compute,  all  ye  who  can, 
Then  telj  me  the  cost  of  just  one  slave  man ; 
From  those  thirty  souls,  the  time  is  not  long, 
A  host  has  risen  to  avenge  the  wrong, 

Ere  this  it  has  cost  us  millions  untold, 
It  has  cost  us  gems,  and  diamonds,  and  gold  : 
It  has  robb'd  our  homes  of  quiet  and  rest, 
And  taken  from  earth  our  brightest  and  best 


432  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


The  Outcast 


LET  the  outcast  dwell  with  thee, 
When  from  slavery's  grasp  he  flee  ; 

Whereso'er  he  liketh  best ; 
Let  the  spot  be  consecrate, 
That  he  chooseth  in  thy  gate ; 
There  let  him  dwell,  by  peace 
And  freedom  blest. 

Thou  shalt  never  carry  back 
To  dark  slavery's  bloody  rack, 

The  trembling  fugitive ; 
Let  him  safely  dwell  with  thee 
'Neath  the  shadow  of  thy  tree, 
So  shall  thy  God  to  thee 

Be  lenitive. 

If  the  master  trace  his  slave, 
Where  thy  lofty  forests  wave, 

In  no  wise  give  him  up ; 
But  still  shelter,  shield  and  save, 
Though  a  tyrant  curse  and  rave; 
Thy  God  will  be  to  thee 

Thy  strength  and  prop. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.,  433 


If  a  wand'rer  cross  thy  path, 
Followed  by  his  Master's  wrath, 

Betray  him  not  for  gold ; 
Lest  the  sordid,  shining  dust, 
Should  become  a  cank'ring  rust, 
That  shall  eat  thy  vitals 

In  the  future  world. 

If  the  escaped  from  slavery's  sting 
To  thy  threshold  dare  to  cling, 

Shut  not  on  him  thy  door, 
Lest  at  heaven's  golden  gate 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  too  late, 
And  barred  its  sacred  fold 

For  evermore. 

Oh,  then  may  we  all  awake 
To  the  crisis  now  at  stake, 

Girded  by  the  law  of  love; 
We  can  dare  the  loss  of  fame, 
We  can  dare  reproach  and  shame, 
If  shielded  by  our  God, 

Who  reigns  above. 


434  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


A  Passing  Thought. 

'TWAS    a   passing   thought,   but    the   stern    heart 
1  shook 

As  though  it  had  open'd  a  strange,  dark  nook ; 
It  shook  'neath  the  weight  of  the  awful  deed 
Which  that  errant  thought  had  the  power  to  breed. 

And  Satan  laugh'd  out  in  his  impious  pride, 
For  he  thought  all  heaven  had  been  defied ; 
And  he  shook  the  locks  of  his  fiery  beard 
O'er  the  choicest  flowers  that  earth  had  rear'd. 

But  the  passing  thought  took  a  deeper  hue, 
And  poisonous  fangs  from  its  center  grew ; 
And  a  sea  of  blood  lay  along  its  route, 
But  it  sped  on  its  mission,  that  wicked  thought. 

The  thought  sprang  up  in  an  evil  soul, 
Where  Satan  had  held  supreme  control ; 
Who  said  to  his  minions,  as  pointing  the  way, 
"  My  legions  are  with  you  from  this  very  day." 

And  furious  passions  arose  in  the  breast, 

As  the  thought  pass'd  round  with  a  fiendish  zest; 

And  they  sent  it  forth  on  its  fiery  flume, 

To  weave  with  destruction  a  path  to  their  doom. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  435 


More  horrid,  the  thought,  in  its  onward  career, 
And  wilder  and  louder  the  bacchanal  cheer ; 
Oh  !  did  they  think,  when  they  put  forth  the  thought 
How  near  to  destruction  they'd  launched  their  boat? 

Did  they  think  when  the  murd'rous  thought  went 

forth, 

And  Satan  laugh 'd  in  his  impious  mirth ; 
Did  they  think  that  God  in  heaven  was  deaf? 
That  His  holy  arm  could  not  bring  relief? 

"As  I  live,"  saith  the  high  and  holy  One, 

"I'll  recompense  the  deeds  which  they  have  done; 

My  arm  is  not  short  that  it  cannot  save !" 

So,  rider  and  horse  He  'whelm'd  in  the  wave. 


436  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


War. 

IT  came  as  the  torrent  comes,  rushing  and  foaming, 
It  came  as  the  thunder  comes,  lightening  wing'd 

booming, 

Like  as  the  whirlwind  sports,  in  its  defying, 
So  scoffs  its  brazen  throat  over  the  dying. 

Striding  on,  as  the  gale  strides  over  the  heaven  ; 
E'en  so   its   dread  carnage  strides  through   our  do- 
minion, 

All  things  before  it  fall  in  its  careering — 
Lhe,  love  and  beauty  all  sink  at  its  bidding. 

As  dark  as  past  ages  were  looms  up  its  present, 
Where  bow'd  the  knee  in  prayer,  curses  are  rampant ; 
Brother  sheds  brother's  blood,  heaven  defying, 
Where  freedom's  altars  stood,  piled  are  the  dying. 

On  it  comes,  thundering  still  stronger  and  sterner, 
Darker  its  madden'd  will,  and  louder  its  thunder; 
Dark  deeds  of  fiendish  shame  wait  on  its  mission, 
Loving  home  and  kindred  fade  irom  our  vision. 

Blood  cries  from  the  ground  it  treads,  bones  pave  its 
pathway, 

Where  ripen  d  our  harvest  beds,  stalks  the  guerrilla; 

Where  tower'd  our  dear  homes,  ashes  are  smoulder- 
ing. 

Where  prattled  our  lov'd  ones,  life-blood  is  gurgling^ 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Our  Patriot  Band. 

THE  sun  lingers  brightly,  the  clouds  float  on  high, 
As  they  lingered  and  floated  in  ages  gone  by; 
And  the  birds  warble  sweetly,  the  brooks  murmur  on, 
As  they  warbled  and  murmur'd  in  days  that  are  gone. 

But  the  list'ners  are  few,  for  the  daring  and  brave 
From  the  hand  of  the  foe  met  a  premature  grave ; 
They  are  gone  from  among  us — our  patriot  band, 
They  are  miss:ng  at  home,  they  are  lost  to  our  land. 

They  have  gone  from  among  us — our  noble  and  true, 
They  have  gone  from  our  prairie  as  goeth  the  dew ; 
They  have  gone  from  our  valley,  mountain  and  plain, 
They  have  gone  i:~om  our  halls,  to  return  not  again. 

But  they'll  live  in  our  hearts,  they  shall  live  in  our 

song, 

While  the  pulse  beats  to  life  or  the  pen  hath  a  tongue; 
We  will  paint  their  brave  deeds  on  the  tablet  of  love* 
And  cherish  their  memory  till  we  pass  above. 


438  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


They  have  gone  from  among  us  with  their  loving 

eyes, 
They  are  blind  to  our  sorrows,  they  are  deaf  to  our 

cries ; 

They  have  left  a  void  space  at  our  altar  and  board, 
Our  fig-tree  has  withered,  and  blasted  our  gourd. 

But  the  cause  was  the  Lord's,  the  battle  was  His, 
And  our  lov'd  that  are  missing  we  trust  are  in  bliss ; 
But  alas!  for  our  homes,  and  alas!  for  our  land, 
They  have  fallen  in  battle ! — our  patriot  band. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  439 


Our  Slain. 


THEY  have  fallen  on  the  steep  hillside, 
1    They  are  sleeping  on  the  plain, 
They  are  resting  'neath  the  ocean-tide, 

Our  slain,  our  noble  slain ! 
But  who,  I'd  ask,  oh,  answer,  please, 
Who,  in  the  broad  world,  slew  all  these  ? 

They  lie  where  Southern  skies  look  out, 
Through  clouds  of  wreathing  smoke ; 

They  fell  along  the  murderer's  route, 
Beneath  the  sabre  stroke ! 

Our  fathers,  brothers — answer,  please, 

Who,  in  the  broad  world,  slew  all  these  ? 

Beneath  our  country's  boasted  flag 
Have  been  mow'd  down  the  brave; 

And  'neath  her  mountain's  beetling  crag 
Our  lov'd  ones  fill  one  grave! 

Oh,  look  on  this,  and  answer,  please, 

Who,  in  the  broad  world,  slew  all  these  ? 

Our  city  walls  have  lost  their  guard ; 

Our  soil  the  hands  that  till ; 
Our  colleges  their  ruling  board ; 

Our  country's  blood  runs  chill! 
Look  on  this  scene  and  answer,  please, 
Who  in  the  broad  world,  slew  all  these  ? 


440  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Our  beautiful,  our  loved,  our  lost, 
How  big  the  mountain  swells! 

Cradled,  in  waves,  or  veiled  in  dust, 
Heaven  grades  the  awful  scales! 

Oh,  pause  to  hear !  and  answer,  please, 

Who,  in  the  broad  world,  slew  all  these  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  441 


On  the  Death  of  my  dear  Pupil,  A.  L.  Clement, 

WHO    LIES     BURIED    IN     THE     SOLDIERS'    HOME 
AT    WASHINGTON,  D.    C. 

I  STOOD,  in  my  own  poetic  dream, 
By  a  dying  couch  near  Potomac's  stream ; 
The  sun  had  sunk  in  his  brilliant  bed, 
And  round  me  were  strewn  the  dying  and  dead. 

'Twas  night — and  out  from  an  ebon  throne, 
O'er  the  work  of  carnage,  the  stars  look'd  down, 
Look'd  on  the  noblest  of  human  race, 
Clasp'd  tight  in  the  folds  of  a  death-embrace. 

A  noble  youth  with  a  clear,  blue  eye, 
And  with  glossy  ringlets,  lay  down  to  die, 
And  before  him,  spread  in  vision  bright, 
Lay  a  world  where  no  shadow  dims  its  light. 

But  'mong  the  scenes  of  his  own  bright  home, 
Where  dear  ones  were  waiting  for  him  to  come, 
His  thoughts  would  wander  the  household  o'er, 
In  search  of  the  lov'd  he  might  see  no  more. 

One  moment,  he  sees  a  much  lov'd  form, 
Gently  bending  her  head  to  th'  bitter  storm, 
And  "  mother,"  falls  from  his  dying  breath, 
"  Farewell !  I  am  going,  Oh  !  Is  this  death? 


442  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


<(  Death — and  no  lov'd  one  to  fan  my  cheek  ? 
Death — and  no  kind  one  of  heaven  to  speak? 
Is  this  the  soldier's  glorious  dow'r, 
To  be  left  all  alone  in  such  an  hour  ?  " 

"  Not  alone,"  said  one — he  lay  awhile, 
And  he  thought  of  his  sisters'  pleasant  smile ; 
But  gentler  than  theirs,  and  sweeter  far, 
Was  the  loving  voice  that  fell  on  his  ear. 

<*  Though  father  nor  mother  is  by  thy  bed 
I  will  sustain  thee,  on  me  lean  thy  head; 
The  valley  of  death  I  will  make  light, 
Heaven's  gate  is  ajar,  with  me  take  thy  flight." 

And  flutt'ring  wings  were  fanning  his  cheek, 
The  Holy  Spirit  of  heaven  did  speak; 
And  leaning  his  head  on  Christ,  his  God, 
He  was  borne  on  high  to  His  blest  abode. 

Day  dawn'd — and  those  that  bent  o'er  the  brave, 
Knew  that  our  lov'd  one  was  mark'd  for  the  grave  ; 
But  none  could  see  in  that  dying  eye 
The  convoy  of  angels  that  hover'd  nigh. 

Who  would  detain  him  one  moment  more, 
To  buffet  the  storms  of  this  sin-cursed  shore, 
Better  far  to  live  in  Christ's  abode, 
Better  far,  that  he  rest  with  the  Triune  God. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  445 


Charlie. 


TIGHT  clasped  his  hands,  some  secret  pain  to  hide, 
And  glossy  ringlets,  gently  toll'd  aside  ; 
As  if  some  angel,  stooping  from  above, 
Had  paused  to  brush  them  with  her  wings  of  love. 

His  brow  was  regal  and  so  very  fair, 
Undimm'd  his  eye,  no  trace  of  grief  was  there, 
To  tell  the  anguish  of  the  spirit's  woe, 
Or  how  a  Christian  can  endure,  below. 

• 

"  Charles,  in  his  round  of  mercy  and  of  love, 
Our  chaplain  comes  to  help  you  look  above;" 
A  smile  triumphant  plays  upon  his  brow, 
Tinging  each  feature  with  a  radiant  glow. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  him  ! "  was  the  quick  reply, 
And  a  warm  grasp— a  kindling  of  the  eye 
Told  more  than  tongue  could  of  the  spirits  pow'r; 
Its  stern  and  bitter  task — its  awful  dow'r. 

The  music  of  his  voice  fell  on  the  ear, 

In  accents  tender,  gentle  and  sincere, 

As  if  young  life  were  dancing  in  each  vein, 

He  spoke  of  hope,  though  others  had  been  slain. 


444  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


41 1  did  not  think,  when  by  the  trump  alarm'd, 
That  I  could  ride  war's  sulph'rous  blast  unharm'd ; 
Nor  bring  to  my  child-home  no  ghastly  scar, 
Therefore  this  wound  occasions  me  no  fear." 

"Is  there  no  sad  regret,  no  pining  thought, 
O'er  the  dark  change  that  marks  thy  youthful  lot? 
No  yearning  for  the  scenes  of  thy  dear  home  ? 
No  fear  of  the  untrodden,  yet  to  come  ?" 

"  Ere  entering  on  the  deadly  battlefield 
I  made  my  God  my  shelter  and  my  shield  ; 
Beneath  the  covert  of  His  shielding  wing 
I've  learn'd  close  to  His  bleeding  side  to  cling. 

"Of  home,  no  yearning  thought,  no  sad  regret? 
Ah  !  these  are  words  too  potent  to  be  met 
By  feeble  man,  unaided  and  alone, 
When  the  word,  mother,  mingles  in  the  tone. 

"  From  far  I  heard  our  flag  had  floated  down 
Among  her  compeers,  she,  the  brightest  one, 
Had  floated  down  from  her  proud  citadel  : 
I  trembled  when  I  heard  the  awful  tale. 

"  With  feelings  strange  I  bound  my  heart,  to  stem 
The  tide  of  blood  at  my  dear  country's  helm  • 
Father  and  mother,  brother,  sister,  all, 
I  bade  farewell  at  my  proud  country's  call. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  445 


"  But  there's  impressed  upon  my  heart  a  name, 
Brightest  and  fairest,  in  my  country's  fame ; 
Whose  sweet  and  tender  love,  from  day  to  day, 
Lives  on  undying  when  all  else  decay. 

'  Written  upon  the  tablet  of  my  heart, 
That  name  the  sweetest  music  can  impart ; 
Were  mother  here,  that  ever  blessed  one, 
I'd  bear  my  pains  without  a  murm'ring  groan." 

One  fervent  prayer,  and  from  the  bed  of  pain 
The  chaplain  seeks  his  quiet  room  again  ; 
Not  then  to  rest,  for  sterner  duties  call, 
Till  midnight  shadows  play  upon  the  wall. 

Not  so  the  soldier — rack'd  with  dying  pain, 
Fond  mem'ry  lives  his  childhood  o'er  again  ; 
And  midst  the  fleeting  years  that  intervene, 
Traces  the  footprints  of  a  Wise  Unseen. 

But  quicken'd  footsteps  near  the  chaplain's  door, 
And  trembling  lips  have  run  the  secret  o'er; 
"  Chaplain,  this  way,  our  noble  volunteer 
Will  soon  be  stretch'd  upon  the  sable  bier." 

Oh !  What  is  it,  that  thus  in  stern  amaze, 
Arrests  the  chaplain?     What  in  that  pale  face — 
What  smoothes  that  brow — irradiates  that  eye — 
Peopling  the  brain  with  hopes,  too  pure  to  die  ? 


446  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Soft  seem'd  his  breathing,  very  soft  and  calm, 
As  though  no  war-trump  might  again  alarm  ; 
But  'twas  not  slumber,  thoughts  were  busy  there, 
Grouping  the  loved,  the  aged,  the  young  and  fair. 

A  moment  more,  and  those  bright,  beaming  eyes 
Fell  on  the  chaplain  in  their  sad  surprise  ; 
And  with  a  scanning  look,  he  sought  to  read, 
What  brought,  again,  this  loved  friend  to  his  bed. 

"  Chaplain,  why  here  ?  the  midnight  hour  has  fled, 
And  thou  art  weary — seek  thy  lowly  bed ; 
For  stern,  sad  duties,  ere  another  night, 
May  call  for  val'rous  acts  and  vigorous  might." 

"  I'd  sought  my  quarters,  but  was  called  from  thence, 
To  tell  a  mortal,  he  is  passing  hence ; 
And  point  him,  from  these  scenes  of  warring  strife, 
Up  to  the  world  of  love,  of  peace  and  life." 

"  Who  now  is  called  to  tread  the  dread  unknown, 
And  enter  on  the  untried  scenes  alone  ? 
Stern  times  are  these,  when  carnage  stalks  abroad, 
And  freemen's  homes  are  drenched  with  freemen's 
blood. 

"  Alas,  poor  man  !     How  suddenly  laid  low  ! 
Great  God  of  nations,  let  injustice  know 
That  thou  art  mighty,  and  in  our  stern  need, 
Great  God  of  battles,  Hear  thy  children  plead! 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.       .  447 


"  Who,  didst  thou  say,  must  tread  the  awful  pass, 
Who,  pass  from  earth,  as  dew-drop  from  the  grass  ; 
Who,  like  myself,  by  pain  and  anguish  tried, 
Yearns  for  a  mother's  love,  to  be  denied  ?* 

The   eyes   more    keenly   scann'd — "  What  could  it 

mean  ?" 

Though  no  reply — the  heart  surmised  the  scene  : 
"  Great  Heaven     'tis  I,  the  awful  pass  must  tread, 
'Tis  I,  must  mingle  with  the  stranger  dead. 

"  Was  it  for  this,  I  p-irded  on  the  sword  ? 
Was  it  for  this,  I  left  my  mother's  board  ? 
For  this,  I  listen'd  to  the  trumpet's  peal? 
For  this,  I  bade  my  home  a  sad  farewell  ? 

"  No  more  than  this,  and  all  life's  duties  done  ? 
No  more  than  this,  and  all  its  circle  run  ? 
No  more  than  this,  and  on  the  tented  plain, 
My  bones  be  gather'd  with  the  many  slain  ? 

u  Was  it  for  this,  with  kind  and  tender  care, 
My  mother  made  me  lisp  my  evening  pray'r! 
For  this,  she  taught  my  prattling  tongue  to  raise 
Praise  to  the  Triune  God,  Ancient  of  Days? 

"  No  more  than  this  ?     Must  here  my  task  expire  ? 
My  life  ebb  out  with  all  its  innate  fire  ? 
My  dreams  of  all  that's  great,  and  good,  and  dear 
Silently  fade,  as  fades  my  life's  career  ?" 


448  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


And  then,  the  strong  man  shook,  fears  undefined, 
And  sad,  and  vague,  were  gathering  in  the  mind; 
"  A  warrior,  from  the  field  of  blood  and  death — 
Was  this  fit  work,  or  time,  to  yield  his  breath? 

Was  it  a  wonder,  grief  was  on  his  soul, 
A  grief  the  strong  man's  will  might  not  control, 
A  wonder  that  the  limbs  should  palsied  grow, 
Lips  tremble,  and  the  tears  forget  to  flow  ? 

Deep  suffocation,  speech  awhile  forbade, 
Then  dreamy  eyes  were  raised  for  human  aid  ; 
"  Tis  I,  you  mean  !  and  oh,  how  long  !  how  long! 
Ere  I  must  join  the  disembodied  throng?" 

The  chaplain  gently  o'er  the  suff rer  bowed, 
And  kindly  said,  "Your  peace  is  made  with  God ; 
And  let  death's  dart  fall,  when,  or  how,  it  may, 
It  but  unbars  the  gate  to  endless  day." 

"  But  oh,  so  sudden  !"  said  the  dying  one, 
«'  Awfully  sudden  !  and  my  race  is  run, 
And  I,  my  mother  never  more  shall  see, 
My  mother,  who  has  toil'd  and  pray'd  for  me." 

"  A  more  than  mother,  will  the  Saviour  be, 
In  the  dark  veil  that  hides  eternity; 
Oh,  lean  on  him,  thou  sorely  stricken  one ! 
He  sees  thy  anguish,  listens  to  each  groan." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  449 


"Yes,"  in  a  whisper,  said  the  dying  youth, 

But  lips  still  trembled  at  the  awful  truth  ; 

As,  though  too  sore,  had  been  the  chast'ning  rod, 

Sent  by  the  kindness  of  a  loving  God. 

But  faith  steps  in  to  smooth  the  thorny  road, 
That  leads  the  sinner  to  the  Lamb  of  God ; 
Spreads  her  bright  pinions  o'er  the  silent  tomb, 
And  gently  lights  its  darkness  and  its  gloom. 

And  on  her  wings,  the  soul  in  prayer  arose 
To  combat  with  the  last  of  all  her  foes ; 
The  lips  grow  calm,  and  in  the  dying  eye, 
Lingers  a  light,  which  said,  "  I  now  can  die." 

From  his  bright  homestead,  one  by  one,  loves  powV, 
Gather'd  the  dear  ones  in  this  trying  hour : 
Each  well  remember'd  face,  each  look  and  word. 
Tenderly  bound  him  with  a  three-fold  cord. 

Then  came  the  message  to  those  dearest  ones, 
In  dying  accents  of  the  tend'rest  tones; 
The  last  sad  duty  was  to  gather  up 
Kind  consolation  for  the  weeper's  cup. 

"Say  ye,  to  my  mother,  I  long'd  for  her, 
'Midst  the  clash  of  steel  and  the  cannon's  roar  ; 
That  her  prayer  of  faith,  and  her  words  of  love, 
Make  smooth  my  path  to  the  world  above. 


450  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"  If  Heaven  permit  by  her  side  I'll  be, 

In  the  rugged  path  of  her  destiny  ; 

And  near  to  her  press,  when  her  heart  is  sad, 

To  point  her  to  Christ,  whose  love  maketh  glad." 

But  a  hymn  of  joy  and  a  seraph-lyre  ; 
Fell  on  his  ear,  from  the  heavenly  choir ; 
And  softly,  and  sweetly,  his  soul  ere  long, 
Was  wafted  on  high  by  a  seraph-throng. 

Did  the  mother  think,  when  clasping  her  boy 
In  her  arms  of  love,  to  her  heart  of  joy, 
Or  when  singing  to  him,  so  soft  and  low, 
What  a  world  of  carnage,  his  path  lay  through  ? 

Did  she  think,  when  she  smoothed  his  silken  hair, 
And  taught  him,  so  gently,  his  evening  prayer, 
That  his  grave  was  mark'd  by  the  hand  of  God, 
In  a  stranger's  land,  'neath  a  stranger's  sod  ? 

Mother,  who  knows  where  your  children  will  be, 
In  the  far-off  depths  of  Eternity  ? 
When  the  books  are  opened — the  thrones  are  set, 
Will  you  meet  your  loved  at  the  golden  gate  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  45.1 


To  a  Mother. 


HUSH  !  murmur  not,  'twas  God  who  gave 
The  nobly  true,  the  lovely  brave  ; 
And  kindly  chose  for  thee  the  lot, 
That  left  his  name  without  a  blot — 
No  blot,  no  stain,  on  his  fair  brow : 
Mother,  thy  son  sleeps  sweetly  now. 

He  starv'd  in  prison,  sad  and  lone, 
Till  hunger  its  dark  work  had  done; 
No  name  above  his  slumb'ring  clay, 
To  tell  thee  where  thy  first-born  lay ; 
But,  weeping  mother,  murmur  not ! 
Thy  Saviour  guards  the  precious  spot. 

You  could  not  to  the  dying  lip, 
Proffer  from  cup,  a  healing  sip ; 
You  could  not  of  a  Saviour  speak, 
Wipe  off  the  death-dew,  kiss  the  cheek ; 
But,  mother,  God  did  this,  and  more, 
By  His  kind  Spirit's  soothing  power. 


452  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


His  reason  fled  !  you  heard  but  true, 
Forgotten  all  he  loved  or  knew ; 
Though  dark  to  earth,  that  heart  was  light, 
For  God  pour'd  day-dawn  on  its  sight ; 
And  step  by  step,  through  trials  great, 
He  led  him  to  a  heavenly  seat. 

Then  dry  your  tears,  fond,  weeping  one, 
For  he  is  safe,  the  prize  is  won ; 
No  cloud  bedims  his  radiant  day, 
No  thorns  obstruct  his  peaceful  way, 
No  war-shout  peals  along  the  plain, 
Where  you  and  he  will  meet  again. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  453 


He  Was  Laid  to  Rest  in  a  Soldier's  Home. 

WE  look'd  for  him  long,  but  he  did  not  come, 
For  they'd  laid  him  to  rest  in  the  soldier's  home ; 
But  we  feel  that  he  sleeps  as  sweetly  there, 
With  the  noble  brave,  as  he  would  sleep  here. 

But  'twas  not  the  bed  we'd  molded  for  him, 
In  the  prairie  land  of  the  bright  sunbeam ; 
Where  a  mother  waited  with  tearful  eye 
To  remold  the  couch  for  her  noble  boy. 

She  had  sent  him  forth  to  her  country's  strife, 
When  the  flowers  were  bursting  into  life  ; 
Ere  eighteen  summers  had  scatter'd  their  bloom, 
Round  the  fav'rite  path  of  his  own  dear  home. 

So  we  looked  and  looked  till  our  eyes  grew  dim 
With  the  trembling  hopes  we  had  wreathed  for  him ; 
But  he  came  not  back  to  his  early  home, 
For  they  laid  him  down  in  a  soldier's  tomb. 

We'll  look  for  him  now,  in  the  light  of  faith, 

When  our  conq'ring  king  shall  have  conquered  death, 

And  trust  we  can  say  in  eternity, 

"  Behold,  I,  and  the  children  thou  gav'st  me  !  " 


454  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


January  1st,  1863,  Emancipation. 

A  LONELY  midnight,  when  one  might  hear 
The  great  earth  throbbing  with  holy  prayer  ; 
And  time  was  winning  the  hours  away, 
To  sleep  in  the  grave,  where  ages  lay  ; 
To  sleep  in  the  grave  with  their  bitter  woes, 
To  sleep  in  the  grave  with  their  broken  vows. 

It  might  not  be — on  a  flaming  scroll, 

Back  on  the  pivot  of  time  they  roll, 

Flinging  aside  all  the  tinseled  sheen, 

That  garnered  the  deeds  of  ages  in  : 

That  garnered  them  in,  and  guarded  them  there, 

From  the  eye  of  day,  with  its  searching  glare. 

From  bleeding  millions — a  wailing  groan 

Had  reach'd  the  Judge  on  His  Great,  White  Throne; 

"  My  arm  is  not  short,"  saith  God  Most  High: 

"  My  ear  not  deaf  to  my  people's  cry  ; 

I  have  trodden  the  wine-press  all  alone, 

Of  the  people  to  help  me,  there  were  none." 

A  spirit  sped  on  its  mission  forth, 

Crying,  "Peace!  peace!"  to  our  dreamy  North  ; 

And  what  cared  we  for  the  captive  poor, 

Since  God  had  the  key  to  their  pris'n  door? 

So  we  slept  again  a  treacherous  sleep, 

While  the  lying  spirit  went  forth  to  reap. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  455 

We  awoke  at  last — awoke  to  know, 
Our  brother  was,  now,  our  deadly  foe, 
'That  hand  to  hand,  and  a  blow  for  blow 
Must  be  the  fearful  death-grapple  now; 
Must  be  the  death-grapple,  so  sternly  sad, 
That  one  or  the  other  from  pow'r  must  fade. 

But  now,  the  heaven  of  heavens  bowed ; 
Midnight  wrapp'd  closer  her  ebon  shroud; 
Earth's  pulse  stood  still,  while  the  fett'ring  chain 
Unclasp'd,  and  the  slave  stood  up  a  man  ; 
He  stood  up  a  man,  by  Lincoln's  decree, 
With  his  stalwart  limbs  unfettered  and  free. 

Earth  hush'd  a  moment,  then  long  and  loud, 
Thanksgiving  rose  from  her  joyful  crowd  ; 
Old  ocean  join'd  in  the  joyful  strain, 
The  wand'ring  winds  play'd  the  glad  refrain  , 
And  the  bending  angels,  catching  the  tone, 
Wafted  it  back  to  our  Father's  great  throne. 

Midst  the  joyous  shout,  and  loud  Amen, 
Of  talents  counted,  five  were  now  ten ; 
"  Well  done  !  "  said  a  voice — "  A  bitter  cup  ! 
Drink  it  and  pass  to  the  Saviour  up  ! " 
And  our  Leader  quaff'd  with  his  armor  on, 
Then  he  pass'd  on  high,  to  receive  his  crowa 


456 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Lincoln. 


AND  so  they  depart,  those  spirits  of  might ! 
That  steal  like  the  moon  on  the  breast  of  night, 
Steal  to  our  aid  when  the  world  is  ajar ; 
And  ruin  and  death  ride  the  blast  of  war. 

To  this  time  and  hour  did  great  Lincoln  come, 
With  message  from  God,  in  our  darken'd  gloom : — 
Commission'd,  he  came — the  message  unroll'd — 
God  call'd  him — he  pass'd  to  the  upper  fold. 

God  call'd  him — not  as  we  wish'd  it  to  be, 
Call'd  him,  ere  millions  had  learn'd  they  were  free  ; 
And  so  from  unrest — from  turmoil  and  strife, 
He  pass'd  to  the  world  of  eternal  life. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  457 


The  Old  Flag. 

HAIL  i  to  the  noble  flag  !  back  from  the  blast, 
The  dark  blast  of  war — comes  our  flag  at  last ! 
Eagle,  proud  eagle,  thou'rt  here  with  each  fold 
Riddled  perchance — but  our  flag  as  of  old. 

Flag,  noble  flag,  of  our  country  the  pride  ! 

Grandly  and  bravely,  out-riding  the  tide  ; 

I  know  thy  birthday,  when  fingers  thirteen, 

Were  knit  round  thy  brow,  and  twined  in  thy  sheea 

Flag  of  our  country!  wave  ever,  as  now, 
A  beacon  afar,  to  the  honest  and  true : 
This  blessing  be  thine — on  land  and  on  sea, 
To  wave  o'er  a  people,  godly  and  free 


45  8  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


United  We  Stand. 

HUSH!  "hold  the  breath,"  now  sweep  it  o'er  the 
main ; 

The  cord  once  riven  is  made  one  again  ; 
One  Will,  one  Law  to  guide  the  helm  of  state  ; 
One  deep  regret,  for  homes  made  desolate, 
We  weeping  bring — Great  loving  God,  to  Thee, 
Bless  Thou  our  nation — Free,  yea,  threefold  free. 

Children  of  dust,  but  little  do  we  know, 

In  this  dark  realm  of  poverty  and  woe, 

How  difficult  to  read  the  purpose  right; 

How  prone  to  shut  the  best  deeds  from  our  sight; 

And  blazon  to  the  world  a  crooked  line, 

Which  had  been  copied  from  our  own  cycloine. 

Thus  step  by  step  the  bloody  risk  was  run, 
And  step  by  step  the  common  footing  won  ; 
And  here  we  come,  great  God  of  Liberty ! 
To  crave  thy  blessing  on  our  unity ;     • 
May,  never,  discord  weave  upon  our  shore, 
Another  web  of  death,  forevermore. 

But  loving  right  and  justice  may  we  rise 
To  be  like  Thee,  our  Father  in  the  skies ! 
To  succor  need — give  to  the  hungry,  meat, 
And  lead  the  erring  to  the  mercy-seat ; 
Till,  to  the  world,  a  beacon-light  we  be, 
Of  mercy,  justice,  truth  and  purity. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  459 


Address  to  a  Foreigner, 


WAS   LOST." 


"YTAY,  back — take  back  those  burning  words  ! 
-ll      Our  Great  Republic  is  not  lost ! 
Though  forced  to  draw  our  glittering  swords, 
And  number  out  our  serried  hosts  ; 
She  is  not  lost — she  cannot  be— 
For  God  will  guard  her  destiny. 

Take  back  those  words — it  is  not  meet 

To  cast  such  tarnish  on  her  fame ; 
When  school-boys  leave  an  empty  seat, 
To  win  for  her  a  deathless  name, 
And  stamp  on  her  unfolded  roll, 
The  impress  of  a  mighty  soul. 

True,  we  did  stem  a  tide  of  blood, 

And  wade  through  slaughter,  groans  and  tears  ; 
All  this— we  did — but  Christ,  our  God, 
Did  curb  the  storm  and  quell  our  fears; 
And  piercing  through  the  battle-cloud, 
We  saw,  by  faith,  our  Triune  God. 

Then  own  yourself  mistaken,  Sir! 

We've  knit  again,  the  North  and  South ; 
We'll  peal  no  more  the  trump  of  war, 

But  freedom  !  shout  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
Till  every  son  of  Adam's  race, 
Shall  bask  in  freedom's  kindly  rays. 


460  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Passage  of  the  Rights  Bill. 

EARTH  stood  on  tip-toe,  watching  from  afar, 
The  fitful  gleam  of  freedom's  trembling  star  ; 
True  to  herself,  Columbia  calls  her  sons, 
And  the  four  winds  give  back  in  thunder  tones, 
"  For  God  and  human  right, 
They  come,  they  come !  " 

Back  roll  the  portals  of  our  country's  halls 
And  freedom's  phalanx  stand  within  her  walls, 
Strength  link'd  to  mighty  strength,  and  tho't  to  tho't, 
They  come,  a  unit,  'gainst  a  foeman's  plot  ; 

For  God  and  human  right, 

To  stand  or  fall. 

Day  wanes  apace,  its  moments  may  not  stay ; 
And  deeds  of  ages  must  be  wiped  away ; 
'Tis  not  sufficient,  limbs  unfetter'd  be, 
The  mind,  the  will,  and  act,  must  all  be  free; 

And,  deeds  of  ages  past 

Stand  doom'd  to-day. 

Dead  silence  reigns  within  the  circling  wall, 

As  hopes  and  fears  alternate,  rise  and  fall ; 

Each  moment  seems  a  span  of  untold  years, 

Each  breath  surcharg'd  with  hopes  and-  trembling  fears. 

The  roll  calls — Shall  we  say  ? 

Thank  God  !  'tis  "  Yea." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  461 


The  long  roll  lengthens — angels  from  above, 
Stoop  down  to  fan  the  deed  with  holy  love  ; 
Millions,  in  prayer,  kneel  at  the  Mercy  Seat, 
To  crave  the  boon,  of  other  boons  most  sweet ; 
And  'midst  the  holy  scene, 
The  Rights  Bill  pass'd! 


463  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Bring  Flowers. 

BRING  flowers  !  fresh  flowers,  all  blooming  and  gay, 
From  the  gardens  of  earth,  the  pathway  of  May  ; 
The  sweetest  of  odor,  the  richest  of  hue, 
To  deck  the  last  rest  of  our  royal  and  true. 

Bring  flowers  !  fresh  flowers,  from  valley  and  hill, 
From  the  depths  of  the  forest  and  shady  rill  ; 
And  strew  on  the  graves  of  our  loyal  and  true, 
All  flowers,  commingling  the  red,  white  and  blue. 

Bring  flowers  !  fresh  flowers,  ye  lovely  and  fair, 
Although  your  lov'd  dead  may  be  sleeping  afar, 
There  are  other  sweet  spirits,  gentle  and  true, 
Who'll  wreathe  their  low  beds  with  the  red,  white  and 
blue. 

Still  green  in  our  hearts  lives  their  memVy  to-day. 
Lives  and  will  ever  live,  while  life  speeds  away  ; 
And  above  in  that  bright  world,  where  all  things  are 

true, 
Faith  sees  our  brave  boys  of  the  red,  white  and  blue. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  463 


The  Two  Sleepers. 

A  HUSH  was  on  the  battlefield, 
The  sun  had  sunk  to  rest ; 
And  hands  no  more  the  sword  to  wield, 
Were  folded  on  each  breast. 

The  dark  night  walked  the  battle  plain, 
Among  the  thronging  dead  ; 

And  angels  soothed  the  bed  of  pain, 
The  cold,  damp,  earthy  bed. 

And  in  the  stillness  of  that  gloom, 
Two  brothers  from  war's  tide, 

As  if  reposing  for  the  tomb, 
Were  slumbering  side  by  side. 

They  were  the  last  of  a  fond  band, 
That  circled  round  one  fire  ; 

They  two  were  spared  to  bless  our  land, 
The  rest  had  gone  up  higher. 

The  row  of  dead  was  lengthening  fast, 
And  kindly  souls  drew  near, 

When  from  the  seeming  dead,  at  last, 
A  voice  rang,  sad  and  clear. 


464  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 

"  We  two  are  all  that's  left,"  it  said ; 

"  I  miss'd  him  in  the  fight ; 
And  here  he  is  so  cold  and  dead, 

To  me  a  mournful  sight. 

"He  was  my  brother,  brave  and  bold, 
And  all  the  world  to  me  ; 

Now,  lies  he  there,  so  stiff  and  cold! 
How  dark  this  world  will  be  /  v 


They  slept  together — that  dark  night, 

The  living  and  the  dead  ; 
But  angels,  from  the  starry  height, 

Kept  guard  around  that  bed. 

Oh,  War,  what  strange,  sad  scenes  are  thine 

Set  in  a  type  of  blood  ; 
What  horrors  round  thy  pathway  twine ! 

What  sorrows  o'er  thee  brood ! 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  465 


"  It  Might  Have  Been.55 


YES,  it  is  gone,  forever  gone  ! 
The  moment  passed,  the  work  not  done ! 
It  might  have  been,  but  now — alas  ! 
The  gulf  is  fixed — time  can't  repass. 

It  might  have  been,  one  careless  word 
Drew  back  the  bolt — untied  the  cord  ; 
Nor  time  can  e'er  efface  that  scene, 
Though  washed  with  tears  that  fall  like  rain. 

It  might  have  been — a  chilling  look, 
And  all  life's  fondest  hopes  were  broke  ; 
Toil  as  we  may,  the  tie  thus  riven 
Cements  not  here — Will  it,  in  heaven  ? 

It  might  have  been,  that  cruel  dart 
Has  pierced  a  tender,  trusting  heart; 
Apply  your  art,  the  wound  to  cure, 

'Twill  ever  Vankle  on  this  shore. 

• 

It  might  have  been,  had  no  one  seen 
How  much  a  flatt'ring  smile  might  mean  ; 
How  little  worth  a  word  may  be, 
When  twined  with  infidelity. 


466  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


The  Lark. 

HOW  oft  I've  watched  this  little  bird, 
With  light  elastic  wing, 
As  out  the  upper  deep  it  pour'd 
Its  plaintive  caroling. 

And  thought,  that  could  those  little  wings 

Teach  our  dark  souls  to  rise, 
And  bathe  us  in  those  vap'ry  springs, 

The  cloud-sea  of  the  skies : 

How  would  our  feet  disdain  this  earth, 

Its  fetters  and  its  bands  ; 
And  dash  aside  its  grov'ling  mirth, 

To  tread  yon  starry  lands. 

Far  from  these  sad,  discordant  notes, 

The  strife  of  wicked  tongues, 
We'd  range  the  world,  where  silence  floats, 

In  noteless,  holy  songs. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  467 


We'd  listen  to  the  silent  tread 

Of  God's  almighty  pow'r ; 
That  bade  the  worlds  their  pathway  thread. 

And  wrought  each  tiny  flow'r 

We'd  feast  upon  that  peace  supreme, 

Amidst  that  cloudy  bow'r, 
Where  guilt-stains  never  mar  a  beam 

Of  pure,  celestial  pow'r. 


468  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


A  Land-Bird  at  Sea. 

AWAY  o'er  the  surf  with  thy  weary  wing, 
Poor  little  land-bird!  What  news  dost  thou  bring? 
Why  hast  thou  forsaken  thy  leafy  shrine? 
What  cause  to  wander,  sweet  land-bird,  was  thine  ? 

Was  thy  mate  thoughtless,  not  caring  for  thee, 
Choosing  the  coziest  nook  in  the  tree? 
Did  he  bring  no  dew-drop  to  quench  thy  thirst  ? 
Did  he  gather  and  eat  his  breakfast  first  ? 

Did  he  sing  thee  no  song  the  live-long  day, 
Of  the  lands  he  had  seen  in  th'  far-away  ? 
Of  the  orange-grove,  the  magnolia  tree, 

Where  he  frolick'd  and  sung,  'away  from  thee  ? 

• 

Did  he  leave  thee,  months,  to  shiver  alone  ? 
With  no  farewell  look,  with  no  kindly  tone  ? 
Did  watching  grow  weary  and  sad  to  thee, 
In  the  top-most  branch  of  the  old  pine  tree  ? 

Or  did  he  not  lead  thee  to  golden  sprays, 
Where  all  is  sunshine  and  no  dark  days  ? 
Was  this,  little  wand'rer,  the  reason  why, 
Thy  weary  winglets  did  oceanward  fly  ? 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  469 

Onward,  still  onward !  never  more  to  swerve, 
Still  pinning  thy  sweep  to  a  cycloid  curve  ; 
Weary  and  faint,  when  too  late,  and  too  worn 
To  retrace  that  step — there  is  no  return  ! 

Poor  little  wanderer!  away. in  thy  grove, 
Thou  learn'dst  a  lesson  of  false-hearted  love ; 
And  didst  leave  thy  mate  for  the  stormy  sea, 
Restless  and  weary,  no  mate  waits  for  thee. 

Thou  art  not  alone,  poor  wandering  thing ! 
There  are  too  many  hearts  with  drooping  wing, 
Too  many  false  steps  that  can't  be  retraced, 
Too  many  wrong  words  that  can't  be  erased. 


470  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET 


Lines. 


THREE  bright  towns  in  our  prairie  land, 
Three  sweet  homes — each  a  loving  band ; 
Three  happy  boys,  one  morn — Oh  say, 
Where  those  three  jnet  the  next  noon-day. 

Not  side  by  side  did  th'  dear  boys  roam, 
For  distance  parted  home  from  home  ; 
Nor  did  all  meet  this  side  death's  door — 
How  soon  they  met  on  th'  other  shore. 

How  soon  they  met  I  seem  to  see 
Heaven's  gates  unfold  to  one,  two  three — 
And  hear  the  shouts  of  victory 
Roll'd  back  to  us,  from  those  dear  three. 

Not  now  apart — those  three  are  bound 
With  Heaven's  love — by  Heaven  crowned ; 
Not  strangers  now,  on  earth  to  roam, 
They're  one  in  Christ,  and  Heaven  is  home. 

Then  cease  to  grieve  for  each  dear  gem, 
They'll  not  come  back — We'll  go  to  them ; 
And,  oh,  how  sweet,  when  life  is  past 
To  meet  that  trio  band,  at  last. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  471 


One,  with  his  happy,  loving  ways, 
Just  left  his  mother's  smiling  face  ; 
A  restless  ride — the  word  is  said — 
The  boy  lies  on  the  pavement  dead. 

The  next  day  morn  the  sun  rose  bright, 
O'er  loving  homes  of  joy  and  light ; 
Again  two  loving  bands  divide, 
Two  happy  boys  approach  the  tide. 

With  loving  words,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Their  feet  have  left  the  shining  land ; 
Upon  each  cheek  a  mother's  kiss — 
The  last — each  son  is  now  in  bliss. 

So  sad  and  sudden  is  the  blow 

That  rends  the  fruitage  from  the  bough ; 

We  see  no  hand,  but  deeply  feel 

The  wound  which  none  but  God  can  heal. 


472  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


Rank  and  File. 


THEY  are  passing  into  eternity, 
Rank  and  file. 

Moment  by  moment,  they  pass  away, 
Rank  and  file. 

They  are  fleeting  on  to  the  judgment  day, 

Rank  and  file, 
How  shall  we  meet  that  dreaded  array, 

Rank  and  file. 

They  have  written  their  deeds  on  tireless  wings, 

Rank  and  file, 
Bearing  them  up  to  the  King  of  kings, 

Rank  and  file, 

Cycle  by  cycle  they  are  marching  along, 

Rank  and  file, 
Each  at  his  post  in  that  sweeping  throng, 

Rank  and  file. 

And  ages  to  ages  are  beating  time, 

Rank  and  file, 
Forming  chords  for  eternity's  rhyme ; 

Rank  and  file. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  473 


But  a  motley  group  is  this  army  strong, 

Rank  and  file, 
Marching  along  to  time's  silent  gong, 

Rank  and  file. 

They  are  pressing  along  and  may  not  stay, 

Rank  and  file, 
Filing  deeds  for  the  judgment  day, 

Rank  and  file. 


474  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


11  And  they  were  judged  every  man  according  to  their  works.1 
Rev.  xx :  13. 

LIFE'S  web  is  weaving  fast — yea,  very  fast, 
The  shuttle  is  so  fleet,  soon  flies  the  last; 
The  Unseen  Weaver  fills  as  we  prepare, 
And  weaves  the  web  upon  Time's  rolling  car. 
We  all  shall  know  upon  the  Judgment  day, 
What  work's  accepted — what  is  cast  away. 


INIS. 


fof  Cl\ildf ei^ 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  477 


Spring. 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  SWALLOWS. 

COME,  dear  sister,  see  the  swallows 
Sweeping  o'er  the  maple  tree — 
Hear  the  robins  and  the  sparrows, 

And  the  little  chickadee ; 
And  they  seem  to  say,  dear  sister, 
"Winter's  gone  and  we  are  free." 
And  I  do  believe  their  twitter ; 
Winter's  gone  and  they  are  free. 

Where  would  be  the  darling  swallows, 

If  'twas  winter  all  the  year? 
And  the  little  home-like  sparrows, 

And  the  little  robin  dear? 
Oh,  how  could  we  do  without  them  ? 

All  their  notes  are  full  of  cheer ! 
Sister,  help  me  solve  this  problem,  _ 

Could  we  live  with  no  birds  here? 

Sister,  it  was  last  September, 

When  the  swallows  took  their  flight ; 
Many  birds  stayed  till  November, 

While  the  days  were  warm  and  bright ; 
See  !  the  cat  and  dog  and  baby 

Watch  the  swallows  with  delight ; 
Tell  me,  sister,  could  we  live  here 

If  all  birds  should  die  to-night? 


478  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Little  Lady  Bird. 

THEY  call  me  little  lady-bird, 
My  coat  is  black  and  red, 
My  Maker  measured,  cut  and  gored, 
And  sewed  it  with  His  thread. 

They  say  "my  house  is  all  on  fire," 
And  bid  me  seek  my  home ; 

They  tell  me  on  their  sylvan  lyre, 
"My  children  all  will  roam." 

I  heed  them  not,  for  no  one  knows 

The  castle  of  my  queen  ; 
Where  every  nestling  lives  and  grows, 

In  domes  of  emerald  green. 

There  is  a  Being  watches  me, 
My  castle,  well,  He  knows ; 

He  guards  my  queen  and  birdies  three, 
From  all  their  lurking  foes. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  479 


The  Bee. 

AS  a  little  buzzing  bee, 
Was  flying  o'er  the  lee, 
Where  flowers  bright  and  gay 
Were  blooming  all  the  day  ; 
He  seemed  to  say  to  all, 
"  Come  out  of  the  dusty  hall, 
From  the  city's  ceaseless  hum, 
Come — come — come  ! 

"I  am  gath'ring,  all  the  day, 
Honey  from  the  flowers  gay, 
Drinking  from  the  honey  dews, 
Feeding  from  all  brilliant  hues; 
And  I  say  to  little  girls, 
With  golden  clustering  curls, 
From  the  smoky  city,  come : 
From  its  discord  and  its  hum, 
From  its  damp  and  sluggish  breath, 
From  its  clogging  wings  of  death, 
Come — come — come, 
To  the  open  air,  come." 


480  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Ground  Sparrow. 

OH  !   WHAT  DOES  THE  GROUND  SPARROW  TELL? 
THE  SPARROW  THAT  BUILDS  BY  THE  WELL  ?    ' 

«T   HAVE  built  my  nest, 

1  The  nicest  and  best, 
But  not  on  the  tree, 
As  you  all  may  see, 
Where  the  old  hawk's  eye 
Can  my  nest  espy, 
Or  the  cat  destroy  my  brood. 

11  My  wee  nest  is  round, 

And  made  in  the  ground, 

And  all  lined  with  down 

And  shreds  from  the  town, 

And  delicate  lace 

From  my  own  brown  dress ; 

And  skillfully  woven,  you  know 

"Just  under  this  stone, 

All  snugly  alone, 

I  sit  every  day 

While  mate  is  away  ; 

And  Kit  never  thought, 

What  a  cozy  spot 

The  sparrow  had  found, 

Just  here  in  the  ground, 

For  sweet  little  birds  and  me." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  481 


The  Garden  Canary. 

OH  sweet,  little  birdie ! 
Our  garden  canary 

Has  come  in  the  bright  month  of  May ; 
Now  zigzagging  hither, 
With  wing  light  as  feather, 
He's  seeking  his  dinner  to-day. 

Our  gay,  little  birdie  ! 

Our  garden  canary ; 
How  lightly  he  swings  on  that  weed ; 

He  stops  not  to  borrow, 

A  grief  for  to-morrow, 
And  merrily  dines  on  his  seed. 

Come  hither,  dear  Mary  ! 

Our  garden  canary 
Is  looking  as  though  he  would  say, 

Receive  every  blessing 

With  heart  of  thanksgiving, 
And  Jesus  will  feed  you  each  day. 


482  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


The  Caged  Oriole's  Lament  and  Death. 

the  grove,  I  was  the  queen, 
Where  the  leaves  were  fresh  and  green- 
And  I  don't  like  this  wiry  cage  at  all ; 
There  is  no  sweet  music  here, 
And  the  cage  is  dark  and  drear —  • 
And  I  can  never  hear  my  own  mate  call. 

'k  There  I  hung  my  pretty  nest, 

On  the  twig  I  liked  the  best ; 
Safely  hid  'neath  the  green  sheltering  leaves — 

Where  the  gentle  breezes  blew, 

And  the  skies  were  golden,  too— 
And  this  is  why  my  heart  so  often  grieves. 

"  Oh,  my  pretty  mistress  dear, 

Did  your  kind  heart  never  fear, 
That  my  sad  fate  might  sometime  be  your  own  ? 

Then  unlock  this  wiry  grate, 

Lest  the  deed  be  all  too  late, 
And  I  will  thank  you  with  my  sweetest  tone. 

"  Gentle  winds  are  out  at  play, 
And  the  birds  are  on  the  spray — 

Oh,  please,  do  let  me  go  and  find  my  mate — 
There  are  bright  green  vales  to-day, 
Where  the  rose  blooms  sweet  and  gay — 

Do  let  me  go  !  or  'twill  soon  be  too  late." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  483 


But  the  mistress  felt  perplexed, 

And  sometimes  sadly  vexed, 
Because  her  bird  refused  to  sing  and  eat : 

So  she  turned  herself  away, 

On  that  glad  and  blithesome  day  ; 
And  left  poor  bird,  with  wing  to  fret  and  beat. 

But  the  day  soon  passed  away, 

Silent  grew  the  Oriole's  lay, 
Pass'd,  too,  his  prison  life  and  saddened  fate  : 

And  never  again  on  earth, 

Will  warble  his  tones  of  rnirth, 
And  never — the  Oriole  find  his  mate 

It  is  seldom  that  we  feel 

What  to  others  we  may  deal, 
And,  stone-like,  listen  to  their  saddened  moan, 

Till  their  fleeting  journey  ends, 

When  too  late  to  make  amends, 
We  lament  what  can  never  be  undone. 


484  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


Thrush's  Death. 


I  HAVE  sung  upon  the  hill, 
I  have  warbled  jn  the  vale, 
Every  note  that  a  bird  can  sing ; 
But  my  throat  is  growing  sore, 
You  shall  never,  never  more, 
Hear  my  voice,  through  the  forest,  ring. 

I  have  often  hushed  my  song, 
When  a  wee  bird  tripp'd  along 
With  her  bewitching,  plaintive  moan, 
But  whene'er  my  music  rang, 
Where  a  bolder  minstrel  sang, 
It  was  mine,  to  be  let  alone. 

I  could  answer  to  the  call, 
And  could  tell  the  tales  of  all, 
Though  their  secrets  were  never  mine  ; 
But  no  doubt  some  gentle  ear 
Was  perplexed  her  name  to  hear, 
From  such  a  mocking  throat  as  mine. 

But  never  upon  the  hill, 

Nor  within  the  tangled  dell, 

Shall  warble  the  thrush-note  erelong ; 

For  this  slow  and  feeble  breath 

Is  the  harbinger  of  death  ; 

And  this  is  the  thrush's  last  song. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  485 


But  list  to  my  message  now, 
If,  from  bush  and  swinging  bough, 
I  have  stolen  my  neighbor's  brood ; 
I  would  gladly  make  amends, 
Ere  my  fleeting  journey  ends, 
For  even  in  bird,  this  was  rude. 

I  believe  I  have  told  you  all, 

Now  gather  a  leafy  pall, 

And  hide  me  from  every  bird. 

And  this  was  his  last  farewell — 

On  hill  or  in  tangled  dell, 

The  thrush's  note  was  no  more  heard 


486  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


George  Washington  and  his  Hatchet. 


LO  !  a  meek-eyed,  little  flower, 
Bending  'neath  a  drop  of  dew, 
Gave  its  pure  and  perfumed  shower 
To  the  wind  that  gently  blew  : 
And  it  seemed  to  whisper  softly, 
"  Bear  it  to  the  child  that's  true." 

Then  'twas  wafted  like  a  feather, 
That  bright  sparkling  drop  of  dew, 
O'er  the  woodland  and  the  heather, 
Till  it  reached  the  boy  so  true ; 
And  it  gently  stooped  to  kiss  him, 
While  the  wind  more  softly  blew. 

But  the  work  was  proudly  finished, 
With  the  hatchet  sharp  and  bright, 
And  the  sapling  fondly  cherished, 
Told  the  tale  ere  coming  night : 
Now  the  query,  now  the  trial : 
Listen,  children,  to  the  right. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET,  487 

To  the  father's  anxious  query, 
With  a  bright  and  sparkling  eye, 
Comes  the  bold  and  truthful  story, 
"Father,  I  can't  tell  a  lie!" 
Then  the  dew-drop  seemed  to  whisper, 
a  Heaven  is  thine,  boy,  by-and-by." 


488  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


"Papa!  How  can  they  get  it  out?" 


^DAPA  !  How  can  they  get  it  out  ?  " 

Asks  a  little  girl,  in  surprise, 
As  to  a  post  on  a  telegraph  route, 
Her  ear  she  cautiously  plies. 

A  whizzing  sound  falls  on  her  ear, 

And  her  little  heart  beats  fast, 
As  the  electric  fluid  speeds  its  career, 

Through  the  frost,  the  sleet,  and  th'  blast. 

She  seems  to  hear  its  buzzing  ring, 

As  it  speeds  along  the  wire, 
And  says:  "  Here  must  the  lightning's  wing 

Unplume,  and  here  its  task  expire." 

Then  her  little  sister  laughed  outright, 
And  said  :  "  How  strange  a  thing  ; 

That  all  the  news  should  here  alight, 
From  the  telegraph's  lightning  wing." 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  489 


Did  You  Do  It? 

TELL  me,  Nettie,  did  you  do  it? 
Did  you  dare  to  scorn  God's  poor? 
Did  you  wound  that  poor,  sad  spirit, 
When  he  talked  God's  mercies  o'er  ? 

Look  within,  sweet  girl  of  laughter, 

See  your  poverty  and  sin  ; 
This  poor  child  from  o'er  the  water 

Has  on  earth  no  kith  nor  kin. 

Let  him  tell  how  he  loves  Jesus, 
He  has  loved  Him  many  years; 

When  the  poor  child  says,  "  God  bless  us  /" 
Then  remember  Jesus  hears, 


490  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


For  a  Little  Child. 


SAVIOUR,  teach  a  little  child, 
To  be  pleasant,  meek  and  mild ; 
Listen  to  her  infant  prayer, 

Make  her  soul  thy  constant  care 

Be  her  Leader,  day  by  day, 

Do  not  let  her  go  astray ; 
Wash  her  heart  and  make  it  clean, 

Then  she  will  not  want  to  sin. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  491 


The  Little  Girl's  Lament. 


^T  WONDER  why  the  birds  don't  sing, 

And  why  the  winter  comes ; 
And  why  'tis  not  forever  spring, 
Around  our  loving  homes." 

And  thus  the  young  girl  murmured  on, 

While  crystal  tears  fell  fast ; 
The  spring  and  birds  had  come  and  gone, 

The  summer,  too,  was  past 

And  now  had  come  a  wintry  day, 

The  summer  warm  had  fled ; 
The  summer  cloud  had  passed  away, 

The  summer  flowers  were  dead. 

So  all  our  loving  friends  must  die, 

They  cannot  always  stay  ; 
And  so  must  you,  and  so  must  I ; 

Oh  !  let  us  watch  and  pray. 


492  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


Christ  Knows  All  Things. 

/iHRIST,  the  Lord,  can  always  hear, 
V       Though  you  whisper  very  low ; 
And  He  is  forever  near 

Where  you  stay  and  where  you  go. 

You  can  never  hide  from  Him, 
Even  in  the  darkest  night ; 

For  His  eye  is  never  dim, 

And  to  Him  the  dark  is  light. 

Every  thought  is  known  to  Him, 
Every  act  and  every  word  ; 

Learn,  my  dear,  His  praise  to  hymn, 
Early  seek  your  loving  Lord. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  493 


The  Falling  Leaf. 

1SAW  a  leaf  fall  from  the  tree, 
All  striped  with  green  and  red, 
And  thought,  how  sad  the  tree  must  be, 
To  see  its  leaf  lie  dead. 

And  then  I  thought,  how,  like  a  leaf, 

We  wither  and  decay  ; 
And  how  we  all  did  weep  with  grief, 

When  Eddie  passed  away. 

I'm  just  as  big  as  Eddie  was, 
And  he's  been  dead  a  year  ; 

And  Auntie  tells  me,  Bessie  Moss 
Will  never  more  be  here. 

Oh,  if  I  die  this  very  day, 

Will  Jesus  give  me  room  ? 
And  let  me  with  dear  Eddie  stay, 

In  our  dear  Father's  home  ? 


494  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET, 


Butterfly. 

li  WHERE  does  the  butterfly hide  her  head> 

M     When  all  the  flowers  are  withered  and  dead? 
Gayest  of  insects,  lightest  of  wing, 
Where  is  she  sleeping  now  ?  poor  little  thing  ! 

"Who  makes  her  bed,  when  there's  snow  on  the  ground  ? 
Who  warms  her  blanket  and  wraps  it  around? 
Who  keeps  the  frost  from  her  dear,  little  feet, 
And  wraps  up  her  wings  from  cold  and  from  sleet  ?  " 

God  has  a  place  for  each  insect,  my  dear, 

The  feeblest  he  feeds — guards  each  with  His  care  ; 

The  butterfly's  life  is  a  bright  summer  day, 

She  drinks  from  the  rose,  then  passes  away. 


THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET.  495 


The  Snow. 

THE  snow,  the  snow,  the  falling  snow, 
How  beautiful  and  white ! 
Its  feath'ry  crystals  gleam  and  glow, 
Like  sparks  of  living  light  ; 
Then  welcome,  Snow, 
O  pure,  white  snow ! 
Around  our  homes  to-night 

The  snow,  the  snow,  what  nice,  good  fun, 

It  brings  to  many  a  heart ; 
As  giddy  skaters  one  by  one, 
Whirl  onward  like  a  dart ; 
And  down  the  hill  o'er  rut  and  run, 
We  coasters  play  our  part. 
Then  welcome,  Snow, 
O  pure,  white  snow  ! 
Around  our  homes  to-night. 


496  THE  PRAIRIE  CASKET. 


God's  Hand  is  in  the  Wintry  Storm. 

THY  hand  is  in  the  wintry  storm, 
Oh,  Thou,  the  Great  and  Good ; 
Moulding  the  snow-flake  into  form, 
Giving  the  snow-bird  food. 

To  him  'tis  life — to  him  'tis  health, 

To  him  a  jubilee; 
To  him  a  world  of  shining  wealth, 

And  free,  to  him  all  free. 

Father,  I'm  but  a  little  child, 
Oh  make  my  heart  all  thine ; 

Make  me  a  Christian,  meek  and  mild, 
And  wilt  Thou  be  all  mine. 


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